CITY  BLOCK 


BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 


THE  UNWELCOME  MAK  (Little,  Brown) 
THE  DARK  MOTHER  (Boni  $  Liveright) 
RAHAB  (Boni  $  Liveright) 

THE   ART   or  THE   VIEUX   COLOMBIER    (Nouvelle   Revue 
Franqaise) 

OUR  AMERICA  (Boni  $  Liveright) 

VIRGIX  SPAIN  (in  preparation  by  Boni  $  Liveright) 


WALDO     FRANK 

CITY  BLOCK 


12V 


1922 

PUBLISHED  Bf  WALDO  FRANK    DARIEM    CONN 


COPTRIOHT,  1922, 

BT 

FRANK 


All  Righti  Reserved 


The  Lettering  and  Seal  are  by  C.  Bertram  Hartman 


THIS  EDITION  IS  LIMITED  TO  1250  COPIES: 
1225  COPIES  ARE  NUMBERED  AND  ARE  FOR 
SALE  TO  SUBSCRIBERS;  25  COPIES  ARE  LET 
TERED  A  TO  Y  AND  ARE  NOT  FOR  SALE. 


No.- 


140 


667119 


The  author  assures  the  reader  that  CITY  BLOCK 
is  a  single  organism  and  that  its  parts  should  be 
read  in  order.  , 


CONTENTS 

PART  PAGE 

One 
ACCOLADE        13 

Two 

MUBDEB 29 

Three 
THE  TABLE 59 

Four 

FAITH  ..........       77 

Five 

UNDEB  THE  DOME:  aleph     ....       99 

Six 

UNDEB  THE  DOME  :  tau 119 

Seven 

JOHN  THE  BAPTIST 137 

Eight 

HOPE 167 

Nine 

CANDLES 175 

Ten 

— AND  CHABITY   .......     199 

Eleven 

THE  ALTAB  OF  THE  WOBLD  ....  219 
Twelve 

JOUBNEY'S  END 243 

Thirteen 

ECCLESIA  SANCTAE  TEBESAE  .  .  .  283 
Fourteen 

BEGINNING  301 


THE  PERSONS  OF  THE  BOOK 


SOPHIE  BREDDAIT 
ANNA  SUCHT 
MRS  LUVE 
PAULA  DESSTYN 
ESTHER  LANICH 
LOTTE  RABINOWICH 
LUCY  DARGENT 
LEILA  DARGENT 
JAKET  LATHRAK 
AIMEE  LIPPER 
JAKE  MC.DERMOTT 
DORA  CARBER 
MARY  RUDD 
ALICE  BROADDUS 
CLARA  JONES 
Miss  KLAAR 
MRS  BENATI 


FLORA  LANICH 
HERBERT  RABINOWICH 
HILDA  SUCHY 
LOUIBA  SUCHY 
MERWIN  LANCASTER 
FAITH  LANCASTER 
ANDY  RUDD 
JACK  RUDD 
TILLDC  LENBACH 


FATHER  Luis  AJALA  DENNIS 

MEYER  LANICH 

KARL  LOER 

CLARENCE  LIPPER 

MICHAEL  SUCHY 

VICTOR  BREDDAN 

RUDD 

MR  KANDRO 

BIFFEN  DALEY 

JESUS 

PETER  DAWES 

MARTIN  LOUNTON 

THEOPHILUS  LARCH 

CuT.SAR    DOTT 

GODFREY  CARBER 

JOHN  DAWSON 

FRED  LATHRAN 

STEELE 

PETER  MCDERMOTT 

PATRICK  BROADDUS 

ISIDOR  RABINOWICH 

DOCTOR  FINNEY 

SILVIS 

STUMM 

DOOCH 

PAOLO  BENATI 

ROMANO 

CICERO 

MR   BENATI 

MR  LENBACH 

RAPHAEL  SISLAVSKY 


THE  WHITE  MAN 
THE  BLACK  WOMAX 
THE  CABINET  MAKER 
THE  WAITER 
THE  PAWNBROKER 
THE  DOCTORS 
CHILDREN 


'By  reality  and  perfection 
I  understand  the  same  thing." 

Spinoza 


ONE 

ACCOLADE 


CLARENCE   LIPPER   stepped  from .  the 
Office  into  Christmas  Eve. 

His  eyes  went  out,  a  gloved  hand  moved 
upward,  gave  a  tilt  to  his  brown  derby  hat.  This, 
his  response  to  what  his  eyes  took  in.  Then  he 
plunged. 

He  was  not  lost. 

Below  the  brim  of  his  hat  was  a  bit  of  auburn 
bang  and  a  clear  brow.  His  hat  and  his  features 
did  not  go  together:  perhaps  the  reason  why  his 
hat  was  so  far  tilted  upward.  There  was  a  small 
fine  nose,  pushing;  a  small  warm  mouth,  taking 
cold  air;  blue  eyes.  Against  these,  in  adverse 
rhythm  a  hat  that  tilted,  a  bamboo  cane  that  swung, 
shoes  spat-ted.  Here  was  presto,  eyes  and  nose 
and  mouth  were  andantino.  A  subtle  discord 
wavering  apart  in  the  crude  song  of  the  street. 

Under  its  spume  of  shopping  multitude,  his  body 
had  its  pace,  his  mind  its  channel.  Clarence  Lipper 
was  an  individual  man  with  shoulders  sharp  through 
the  churn. 

The  street  was  cold  and  close.  Two  sides  were 
stores  .  .  were  sieves,  sucking,  barring.  The  mul 
titude  was  agitant,  yet  constant.  It  was  thick,  it 
gave  forth  a  dull  glow  like  a  material  half  con 
gealed,  half  ignited  .  .  balanced  between  flow  and 


City  Block 

solid,  between  flame  and  clod.  But  Clarence  went 
straight.  The  Sieve  had  no  suck  for  him.  In  his 
pocket  were  six  dollars  and  some  change.  In  a 
certain  store  was  a  comb-and-brush  of  Ivory  .  . 
the  gift  for  his  wife.  She  had  made  hints.  She  was 
fit  home  this  moment,  primed  to  be  surprised  at  the 
briish-and-comb  of  celluloid  'tortoise  shell'  which 
Clarence  was  to  bring  her.  It  was  going  to  be  fun, 
ran  the  mood  of  Clarence  Lipper's  feet  .  .  as  it 
was  rare  .  .  to  surprise  the  subtle  Aimee  with  a 
surprise  she  was  not  primed  for. 

— Ivory! 

A  scatter  of  heads,  a  hedge  of  shoulders,  a  cloud 
of  skirts :  he  saw  a  round  red  face  he  knew.  Very 
near  the  pavement.  It  glowed  there.  Little  eyes 
toward  him  made  a  runway  Clarence  could  not 
avoid. 

"Hello,  Biff  Daley." 

"Just  the  man  I  want!"  A  little  fellow  snapped 
his  ungloved  fingers.  His  face  tilted  like  a  moon. 
"Come  along  .  .  .  Hot  toddy." 

Clarence  stood  still:  very  poised  and  quiet. 

"Merry  Christmas,"  he  said. 

"Sure.    I'll  say  it  in  the  proper  place." 

Clarence  frowned  bland.  "Merry  Christmas 
Eve's  a  busy  time,  old  pal,  for  this  here  guy.  Can't 
be  done." 

"O  come  along.    Just  one.    On  me." 

"Can't  be  done.    Can't  be  done.    Can't  be  done." 

"Then  you  won't  wish  me  a  merry  Christmas?" 
Clarence  was  still.  "O  come  on." 


City  Block 

"Can't  be  done." 

They  stood,  parting  the  slakish  crowd.  Clarence 
threw  up  his  head  and  let  his  self  control  beam  on 
the  low  spaces  of  his  friend.  Daley  was  laughing. 

"Come  along.  Coaxin'  enough.  You  ain't  crazy 
all  of  a  sudden?  Come  along.  It's  cold.  .  .  Hot 
toddy." 

Clarence's  face  was  high,  casting  its  beam  of 
assurance. 

About  his  face  surged  the  people,  blind  blank 
faces  all  about  his  face.  Beyond  his  face  stood  the 
row  of  buildings,  dim  and  unreal  within  their  blar 
ing  lights :  gray  and  retreating  before  their  serried 
lights.  Above  his  face  a  slate  sky,  solid  and  far. 
Before  his  face,  receiving  its  beam  of  towering  self- 
control,  the  moon  of  Daley. 

"Can't  be  done."  .  .  .  The  sky  cracked  open. 
Like  a  little  red  bird  came 

a  brightness 

downward. 

It  grew.  Below  the  sky,  over  the  blind  multitude, 
came  Jesus  .  .  gracefully  afloat  with  one  hand  for 
ward.  He  wore  a  scarlet  robe  and  a  gold  crown; 
he  wore  sandals.  He  was  dressed  like  the  Christ  in 
the  Altar  of  Clarence  Lipper's  church.  He  wafted 
downward  as  on  a  gentle  sea:  one  hand  in  advance 
like  a  prow.  Very  softly  with  his  forefinger  he 
touched  the  pursed  firm  lips  of  Clarence.  He  dis 
appeared.  The  crack  in  the  sky  was  gone. 

Clarence  Lipper  was  large.  The  crowds  of  the 
City,  shopping,  shrank.  But  he  stood  pendulous 


City  Block 

before  his  friend.     His  arm  swung  loose.     There 
was  a  wonderful  thirst  in  his  mouth. 

Daley  locked  an  arm  in  the  arm  of  Clarence. 
They  marched  off,  humming  two  tunes. 


2 


The  "L"  train  settled  swiftly  against  the  wooden 
platform:  gates  jarred  open,  jarred  shut:  a  prog 
ress  of  sudden  bells :  the  train  drew  out.  Upon  the 
platform  a  heaped  deposit  of  women  and  men :  they 
gathered  themselves,  finding  again  their  separate 
limits  from  the  shunted  mass  they  had  partaken 
of  .  .  scattering,  dying. 

Clarence  Lipper  knocked  his  heels,  then  his 
knees  together.  He  found  it  hard  to  gather  him 
self.  He  stood  and  swayed,  fingering  far  out  over 
a  large  expanse  in  which  he  felt  he  lay.  Another 
train.  The  dispersive  sweep  of  another  heaped 
deposit  of  men  and  women  caught  him,  dragged 
him  downstairs. 

He  turned  his  body,  his  legs  dangled  forward. 
He  looked  at  the  saloon  of  Michael  Connor.  It 
was  a  blazing  point  in  the  dim  waste  he  was  living. 
At  once  the  line  of  self  rose  subtly  in  his  mind.  He 
knew  that  he  stood  on  the  corner  of  the  Block 
where  he  lived  .  .  — my  Block.  He  had  come 
home.  His  hands  clutched  convulsively  at  his  coat- 
pockets.  Empty.  He  had  come  home  empty.  He 
was  almost  sober,  passing  with  cold  hands  over  the 
sharp  limits  of  his  self. 


City  Block 

"I  am  a  bad  one,  I  am  a  bad  one,"  he  said.  "God! 
I  wish  I  was  drunk.  Not  even  that.  O  ninny!" 

He  began  to  walk.  He  walked  within  a  circle, 
upon  the  corner  of  the  Block  where  he  lived.  He 
had  to  move.  He  could  move  nowhere.  He  circled. 
Then  he  stopped  and  gazed  at  the  establishment  of 
Michael  Connor.  It  seemed  to  urge  him.  He  hated 
it.  He  bowed  to  it. 

"Let  me  introduce  myself,"  he  said. 

He  took  off  his  hat,  swept  it  low.  "My  name  is 
Lipper.  .  .  Clarence  Lipper."  Silence.  He  felt 
degraded,  defeated.  Upon  that  level  he  found  that 
he  needed  to  live.  Upon  that  level  he  might  still 
find  what  he  needed  always :  satisfaction. 

"A  clean  job  of  a  dirty  job — a  low  down  mean 
nasty  job,"  he  declaimed.  A  part  of  him  felt  sobri 
ety  return  .  .  was  panicked.  He  rushed  to  the 
saloon. 

Five  minutes  later,  he  came  out.  He  was  steady. 
His  hat  no  longer  tilted  to  his  brow.  He  had  for 
gotten  his  cane.  A  new  mood  had  him,  and  almost 
he  seemed  ready  to  enjoy  it. 

"Low,  low,  low,"  he  muttered  to  himself.  "Hus 
band  of  Aimee,  this  lowness,  this  shamefulness. 
Let  her  behold!  Let  her  see  clear!  Let  her  free 
herself,  seeing  clear.  .  .  A  real  Christian  present, 
that.  .  .  My  God,  yes.  That's  my  gift  to  the  wife. 
Let  her  see  clear  and  be  free." 

He  began  to  walk.  "I  can  stand  it.  O  I  can 
stand  it.  For  her  sake.  .  .  I'll  take  her  present. 


City  Block 

Yes,  Aimee,  though  I  have  no  gift  in  my  hand  for 
you,  I  take  your  present.  I  shall  never  use  it.  I 
shall  never  smoke  a  cigar  with  that  amber  holder! 
I  shall  keep  it  next  my  heart.  In  my  solitude  I 
shall  look  at  it.  Our  last  exchange  of  gifts.  She 
gave  me  this.  God  bless  her !  I  gave  her  free  eyes 
to  see  me  by,  and  freedom  to  fling  me  off.  .  .  Fling 
me  off,  fling  me  off!  I  shall  die?  I  shan't  murmur." 

He  stopped.  He  found  he  had  been  walking 
with  his  new  steadiness  in  the  wrong  direction. 

He  returned  to  the  corner  of  his  Block. 

In  the  entrance  of  the  Elevated  stairs,  stood  an 
ancient  man. 

The  eyes  of  Clarence  touched  him  and  were  held. 
They  went  up  and  down  upon  the  man.  What 
they  saw  came  in  to  him,  and  made  him  steadier. 

The  man  was  upright.  He  had  a  coat  that  was 
worn  hard  and  shiny:  a  coat  that  looked  colder 
than  the  night.  He  had  a  long  straight  beard  of 
grey.  His  nose  stood  sheer  to  the  ploughed  cheeks 
and  the  beaten  eyes,  stood  under  a  brow  resigned 
like  a  field  in  winter.  He  was  very  still,  straight  .  . 
this  Jew.  He  had  delicate  fair  hands,  naked  in  the 
night,  that  held  for  sale  a  box  of  chewing  gum. 

Clarence  stood  before  him.  Clarence  and  the 
Jew  looked  at  each  other. 

"My  name  is  Lipper.  I  wish  you  a  Merry 
Christmas." 

The  vendor  bowed  his  head.  He  lifted  his  eyes 
and  saw  the  young  man  before  them. 

<20> 


City  Block 

"You — you  will  haf  a  Merry  Christmas,"  he  said. 

Clarence  threw  up  his  face  and  laughed. 

"Yes,  yes,"  protested  Raphael  Sislavsky.  He 
laughed  along.  "Yes,  yes.  You  see " 

Clarence  pulled  from  his  pocket  a  scattering  of 
coin  .  .  the  debris  of  six  dollars. 

"A  Merry  Christmas  to  you,"  he  poured  the 
money  into  the  case  of  chewing  gum.  The  old  man 
nodded,with  apt  hands  fended  the  coin  from  fall 
ing  over  the  edge. 

"That's  right.     That's  right,"  he  said.     "You 

» 

Clarence  was  suddenly  afraid.  — He's  crazy  or 
something!  He  stepped  away.  Over  his  shoulder, 
he  felt  the  bearded  pedlar  nodding  and  laughing.  .  . 

He  walked  swift  toward  home.  It  was  night. 
The  Block  was  empty.  The  houses  stood  high  and 
laden  over  the  empty  Block.  He  walked  with 
hunched  shoulders  as  if  each  house  from  its  fullness 
struck  him,  with  eyes  turned  away  ,  .  savagely, 
idly  struck. 

He  heard  his  feet  fall  steady,  he  walked  more 
lightly  in  order  not  to  hear  them.  Then  he  rebelled 
at  this.  He  raised  his  arms  over  his  head  and 
opened  his  mouth.  He  gave  a  shout — gave  all  of 
a  shout  save  the  sound.  He  felt  better. 

"I'm  going  home,"  he  said  aloud,  "with  a  brave 
Christmas  present!" 

The  houses  were  hostile,  he  no  longer  cared. 
With  hunched  shoulders,  back  bent,  head  thrust 


City  Block 

forward  and  down,  he  marched  .  .  not  caring,  not 
seeing. 

.  .  Impact  against  his  body.  "O!"  He  looked 
up. 

A  little  woman  said:  "I  tried  to  avoid  you:  but — 
Excuse  me/* 

He  was  very  courtly.  He  felt  how  he  talked 
like  an  angel. 

"Madame,"  he  said,  "it  was  my  fault.  I  am  pre 
occupied.  I  did  not  look  where  I  was  going. 
Pardon." 

He  raised  his  hat  and  his  eyes  that  were  dusk 
with  resignation.  He  saw  a  small  dim  face,  tilted 
back,  it  seemed  full  of  laughing  eyes.  She  was 
laughing  .  .  — laughing  at  me !  The  pain  was  sweet 
to  his  mood.  He  needed  to  return  good  .  .  to 
flourish  good  .  .  for  this  new  evil.  He  said: 

"Madame,  let  me  introduce  myself.  I  am  Mr 
Lipper.  I  wish  you  a  Merry  Christmas.*' 

He  stepped  aside.    But  she  was  still  before  him. 

"A  right  Merry  Christmas  to  you.  My  name 
is  Mrs  Luve."  She  spoke  strangely  for  her  hand, 
lying  a  moment  in  his,  gave  to  her  words  conviction. 
She  withdrew  her  hand.  She  pointed  upward  with 
her  face  to  the  house  before  which  they  stood. 

"Come,  will  you?  .  .  just  a  moment.  We'll 
drink  to  your  Merry  Christmas." 

He  saw  her  .  .  drab  and  battered,  a  miserable 
woman.  She  wore  no  hat  upon  her  arid  hair,  a 
black  shawl  fended  her  throat.  He  knew  what 
she  was. 

<22> 


City  Block 

Great  warmth  was  in  him.  Enthusiasm  kindled 
to  his  eyes,  so  that  his  eyes  were  hot  and  overflow 
ing.  He  saw  this  broken,  miserable  woman.  He 
was  glad. 

"I  shall  be  honored,"  he  said,  "to  drink  with 
you." 


He  folded  his  coat  carefully,  and  laid  it  on  a 
chair.  He  sat  down. 

He  was  sober.  The  hours  had  blighted  him  and 
left  him  nothing.  He  watched  his  hostess  bent  be 
fore  a  cupboard.  — My  hours,  he  said  to  himself: 
her  years.  He  said  to  himself: — We  will  drink 
together  to  the  common  Nothing  we  are  and  we 
share. 

She  saw  him,  warm  and  feverish,  with  his  light 
hair  mussed.  She  gave  him  his  glass.  She  saw  his 
hand  .  .  his  wedding  ring  .  .  how  he  trembled. 

She  stood. 

"Here  is  the  toast,"  she  said:  "Your  Merry 
Christmas." 

He  mustered  his  strength  that  seemed  to  wane  at 
this  fine  climax  of  his  degradation. 

"Must  we  leave  yours  out?" 

"Let  yours  come  first.  It  deserves  a  whole 
drink."  She  paused.  "You  haven't  drunk  yet." 

He  drank.  Quickly  he  placed  the  glass  on  the 
table  before  him.  He  hid  his  face  in  his  hands. 

<23> 


City  Block 

He  did  not  understand. — This  is  horrible!  What 
horror  had  mounted  upon  him  from  that  little  point, 
so  remote,  so  crucial,  so  unreal:  the  moment  down 
town  when  he  yielded  to  Biff  Daley?  He  could 
not  understand.  Why  had  he  suddenly  yielded? 
He  had  said  No  and  No:  sudden  when  the  battle 
was  won,  he  had  yielded!  It  was  so  out  of  per 
spective,  so  unnatural,  absurd. — I  am  Clarence 
Lipper,  sober,  loving  husband  of  my  wife:  sales 
man  of  razors.  Gentleman,  he  believed. — What 
have  I  done  ?  What  made  him  so  sure  he  had  done 
anything  at  all?  It  was  late.  He  was  without  the 
present  for  Aimee. — Let  me  go  home.  Let  him 
bury  the  truth  in  her  dear  heart.  There  would  be 
nothing. 

This.  .  .  He  sat  in  a  room,  three  doors  away 
from  where  his  wife  sat  also,  waiting.  This.  .  .  — I 
sit  with  a  woman,  an  ugly,  battered,  miserable 
woman,  while  my  wife  waits.  .  .  He  sat  drinking. 

There  was  a  meaning.  He  had  drunk  with  her. 
He  could  not  understand. 

Everything  was  strange,  and  everything  was  real 
that  was  strange.  He  had  drunk  her  wine,  and  she 
was  nothing  to  him.  Three  doors  away,  waited  his 
love  and  his  wife.  Let  this  woman  dispose !  Since, 
howsoever,  he  could  not  understand. 

She  filled  his  glass. 

"Now  .  .  for  the  second  toast?"  she  asked  him, 
timidly. 

But  she  was  hideous  and  foul.  He  was  sure. 
This  he  could  understand.  This  at  least.  And 


City  Block 

his  own  misery.  He  could  not  drink.  He  forgot 
what  this  drink  was  for.  He  clasped  his  hands 
about  his  head,  and  he  wept. 

For  long  he  wept.  Of  one  thing  only  he  was 
sure :  this  woman  before  whom  he  wept  meant  noth 
ing  and  was  foul — with  whom  he  sat  drinking  away 
his  Christmas  Eve.  So  he  did  not  find  it  strange 
that  while  he  wept  she  sat  very  still  beside  him  on 
her  chair,  saying  no  word. 

He  looked  up. 

Her  eyes  were  gently  placed  on  his,  as  if  they 
had  been  there  patient,  while  he  wept,  waiting  for 
his  to  rise.  He  knew  her  sort.  He  did  not  find 
this  strange. 

His  own  life,  his  own  gay  lovely  life  .  .  broken 
so  wantonly,  so  swiftly  .  .  here  was  strangeness 
enough.  No  use  to  find  strangeness  in  a  miserable 
woman. 

His  mouth  was  full  of  tears.  Words  came. 
Rounded  and  easy  words,  through  the  tears  of  his 
mouth.  All  the  words  of  his  tearful  story.  And  it 
was  natural  to  speak. 

She  sat  very  still  while  he  spoke.  His  head  was 
down.  His  eyes  were  on  the  floor.  At  times  his 
eyes  lifted  to  the  glass  on  the  table.  Then  again 
they  fell.  So  he  spoke,  easefully.  She  sat  with 
hands  folded  in  her  lap.  Faintly,  her  head  moved 
back  and  forth  in  cadence  with  his  words. 

There  was  little  to  tell.  It  took  him  a  long  time 
to  tell  it.  It  was  a  great  thing  to  him. 

<25> 


City  Block 

"Ivory,"  she  repeated. 

"Now  nothing — nothing — and  late.  .  ." 

She  was  up.  She  wavered  timidly  at  the  door. 
She  seemed  to  plead,  to  be  preparing  to  plead,  as 
she  asked  him : 

"Will  you  wait?    I  won't  be  long.    Please  wait." 

She  left  him. 

He  remained,  bent  forward,  his  elbows  on  his 
knees,  head  down.  He  saw  the  floor.  He  saw  the 
drink  he  had  not  touched  .  .  the  second  toast  .  . 
her  Merry  Christmas. 

He  saw,  slowly,  that  she  was  standing  above 
him:  that  she  was  placing  something  for  him  to 
behold,  under  his  eyes. 

She  withdrew  it,  drawing  his  eyes  to  the  table 
where  she  placed  the  thing  she  wanted  him  to  see. 

"They  are  old,"  she  said,  "they  are  lots  better 
than  new.  .  . 

"They  have  not  been  used  for  over  twenty  years," 
she  said.  "And  then  they  were  used  but  a  few  times 
by  a  girl  .  .  a  girl  as  lovely  as  could  be.  They 
were  a  Christmas  gift  from  her  husband  .  .  the 
first  year  they  were  married." 

"They  were,"  she  said,  "too  precious,  she  thought, 
to  be  used." 

She  lifted  a  silver  brush-and-comb  from  crinkling 
paper. 

"I  think  they're  quite  lovely,"  she  said.  "They'll 
do.  .  And  look!  what  luck!  I  was  so  afraid  I'd 
not  find  a  decent  box.  This  one  is  perfect." 

Clarence  was  up. 

<26> 


City  Block 

"That  .  .  silver  brush-and-comb!" 

"Antique/'  she  said.  "Much  choicer  than  the 
modern.  Look  at  'em.  Fresh  and  clean.  .  .  Like 
her." 

"But  I  can't— 

"You  must!" 

She  took  the  brush  and  comb  from  his  bewil 
dered  hands.  She  thrust  them  peremptorily  into 
the  box.  With  wilful  fingers,  she  wrapped  her 
package,  tied  it. 

"There."  She  waved  her  hands  .  .  they  seemed 
very  free  and  light;  it  was  as  if  she  felt  them  so  as 
she  waved  them. 

"Now,  go  home.  Quick.  Say  anything  you 
like."  She  studied  him.  "Better  say  nothing.  Let 
her  think  you  were  delayed  .  .  let  her  forget  to 
think  with  looking  at  her  gift." 

The  box  was  in  his  hands:  his  hat  and  his  coat 
also. 

"I  don't  understand,"  he  rebelled. 

She  smiled  .  .  dim  eyes  suddenly  bright  and 
filling  a  dim  face. 

Then  she  was  serious. 

"This  is  Christmas  Eve,"  was  her  answer.  Im- 
palpably,  she  pressed  him  to  the  door. 


<27> 


TWO 

MURDER 


AT  the  hall's  one  end  two  doors,  dim  with  the 
light  that  comes  through  wired  glass:  mak 
ing  of  all  a  cross  with  black  tree,  short 
luminous  arms. 

In  one  moment,  the  two  doors  opened.  Two 
women  closed  them  and  stood,  shadows  against  frail 
light  .  .  looked  at  each  other. 

Each  thought: — She  too  is  going  to  have  a  child! 

"I  haven't  seen  you  before.  We  just  moved  in," 
the  tall  woman  smiled :  the  smile  spoke. 

The  short  woman  smiled  but  her  smile  was  in 
the  dark.  .  . 

They  walked  down  stairs  feeling  each  other's 
steps.  The  short  stout  woman  careful  of  her  steps, 
she  was  shy.  She  felt  in  her  back  this  other  .  . 
not  like  her  name  she  had  read  on  the  vestibule 
plate:  Breddan.  — She  don't  seem  Irish.  The 
front  door  let  them  out.  Sunshine  vibrant  and 
shrill,  full  of  moats,  full  of  wagons  and  dirt  and 
children  and  themselves  dancing  there  against  the 
dark  house  and  each  other.  The  tall  woman  faced 
her.  — She  is  lovely,  she  is  like  her  voice.  .  . 


Anna  Suchy  opened  the  door.  Sophie  Breddan 
stood  still  against  the  little  woman's  silence,  she 
understood  it:  she  came  in.  Anna  was  thinking, 


City  Block 

often  since  that  first  meeting  she  had  thought:  — I 
wonder,  could  she  like  me?  We  are  both  Czech. 
But  she  is  married  to  a  swell  Irish  politician,  my 
Michael's  a  subway  guard.  I  wonder,  could  she 
like  me? 

"Will  you  mind  coming  this  way?"  She  led 
Sophie  Breddan  back  to  a  dim  kitchen:  brown  wall 
paper  sucked  away  its  light.  She  did  not  say  that 
their  front  light  room  was  rented  to  Mr  Kandro. 

"I  hope  I'm  not  disturbing  you,'*  said  Sophie. 

"O  no,  I  was  sewing." 

"I  brought  mine  along  too.  We  can  sew  to 
gether."  .  . 

Often  they  sewed  together.  .  . 

Sophie's  flat  was  all  hers — just  her  man  and 
hers.  It  was  full  of  light.  Next  door  on  that  side 
was  the  empty  lot  and  the  windows  had  sun,  not 
alley.  It  was  finer  in  Sophie's  apartment.  But 
Sophie  never  said,  having  once  just  stopped  from 
saying:  "Come  over  always,  Anna.  The  light's  so 
much  better."  They  exchanged  visits. 

Their  men  did  not  count :  they  did  not  speak  of 
their  men.  Anna  was  afraid  of  meeting  an  Irish 
politician:  Sophie  had  no  feel  of  the  being  of 
Michael  Suchy.  It  was  not  these  things.  Simply 
— they  looking  at  one  another,  feeling  the  sacra 
ment  of  their  own  life  in  one  another,  feeling  them 
selves  so — their  men  did  not  count. 

They  were  not  solemn,  feeling  herself  in  the 
other.  They  were  like  trees  in  the  Spring,  giving 
forth  bloom.  So  Anna  chattered.  She  sat  there 

<32> 


City  Block 

plump,  far  back  in  her  rocker,  rocking.  Her  feet 
did  not  touch  the  floor  when  she  leaned  far  back 
and  chattered.  White  stockings  brimmed  over  the 
wrinkled  shoes.  They  were  like  her  chatter.  Above 
them  a  grey  dress :  a  round  bare  flat  face  with  blue 
eyes,  sharp  like  her  chattering  that  came  from  a 
silence  in  her,  solid  and  sure  like  her  grey-covered 
body.  Sophie  sat  at  her  sewing  machine:  while 
Anna  chattered,  listening  Sophie  hummed.  Naked 
arms,  thin,  very  long  upon  the  wood  and  the  white 
cloth.  Black  hair  drawn  tight  and  knotted  to  the 
neck.  Lips  full  against  her  slender  all,  red  lips 
upon  paleness:  lips  clear  and  blooded  as  if  fine 
steel  had  chiselled  their  edge. 

Sophie  turned  her  face,  unmoving  her  naked 
arms :  then  Anna  saw  her  eyes  like  slow  fires  buried 
within  a  snow  at  night.  Sophie  worked  and 
hummed :  Anna  felt  her  eyes.  —She  likes  me,  she 
likes  me.  .  .  In  knowledge  of  that,  Anna  chat 
tered  like  an  infant  at  play  in  a  warm  high  crib. 


Sophie  went  to  bed. 

There  was  a  doctor:  two  doctors:  three.  .  .  A 
trained  nurse.  A  husband  fluttering  ever  near,  un 
approachable,  unapproached,  like  flesh  of  a  man 
caught  in  a  whirling  wheel.  .  .  There  was  a  dead 
boy. 

Sophie  lay  on,  at  the  wheel's  center,  still:  drop 
by  drop  life  that  had  gushed  from  her  came  hesi 
tant  back. 

<33> 


City  Block 

She  could  reach  out  a  hand,  take  another  hand 
and  press  it,  press  almost  a  smile  to  her  lips  .  . 
not  her  eyes  yet.  She  could  feel  sorry  for  her  man, 
and  suffer  for  him,  feel  her  suffering  not  enough  for 
his,  and  stroke  at  last  quite  naturally  his  pain  as 
she  must  have  her  child's  misery  who  was  dead. 
She  was  able  to  ask  for  Anna.  Then  Anna  went 
to  bed. 

Anna's  child  was  a  girl  .  .  seven  pounds  .  . 
Hilda.  Sophie  lying  grey  in  her  bright  room  knew 
how  Hilda  had  come  into  that  dark  other  flat  as 
the  sun  always  noiselessly  into  her  own.  There 
was  night,  there  was  day:  so  easily. 

Sophie  placed  her  cool  hands  on  her  hot  eyes. 
So  she  lay,  behind  and  yet  within  herself.  Sway 
ing.  Swaying  within  her  arms  and  slender  hands. 
She  had  a  sense  of  her  man  in  the  other  room,  sit 
ting  in  a  chair  and  trying  to  reason. 

"We  must  be  sensible,"  she  was  sure  he  said  to 
himself.  Sensible.  His  boyish  face  was  less  ruddy, 
his  lips  she  knew  were  a  little  twisted.  Twisted 
and  pale  with  being  sensible.  There  were  diagonal 
furrows  on  his  brow  with  being  sensible.  His  nails 
were  bitten  to  the  quick  with  being  sensible.  He 
was  all  tortured  and  out  of  himself  with  being 
calm  there,  sensible.  Sophie  stretched  her  body 
very  long  in  her  hot  bed,  down  to  where  it  was 
cooler:  she  forgot  Victor.  She  stretched  her  feet, 
lying  upon  her  back,  in  order  to  be  longer.  She 
was  suddenly  at  peace.  Her  arms  were  at  her 
side,  very  flat:  her  palms  lay  upward  upon  each 


City  Block 

side  of  her  face.  Her  face  and  her  palms  looked 
upward.  Her  lips  were  parted.  Her  face  and 
palms,  her  mouth  looked  upward :  her  face  and  her 
mouth  were  warm  with  happy  tears. 

"I  will  be  strong — right  away — very  soon.  Next 
time  it  will  be  good:  go  well."  She  slept. 

Victor  Breddan  sat  tense  in  his  chair  and  relived 
the  talk  he  had  had  with  Doctor  Lacey.  He  sat 
very  tense  at  work,  making  up  his  mind. 

This  was  a  blow  and  he  resented  it.  He  did  not 
know,  but  he  resented  Sophie  who  had  brought  it 
upon  him.  An  unknown,  unsought,  gaugeless  ele 
ment,  his  resenting,  to  merge  in  the  making  up  his 
mind. 

Victor  was  very  young,  successful.  He  was  the 
Confidential  Clerk  of  Supreme  Court  Justice  Tar- 
gett,  and  Justice  Targett  too  was  young  for  one 
in  his  position,  ambitious  for  more.  He  liked  Vic 
tor,  Victor  knew.  .  and  there  was  a  high  way  be 
fore  them  they  must  travel  together.  Victor  sat 
still  in  his  chair,  and  leaned  on  the  vision  that  was 
easily  his,  as  if  it  had  been  himself,  of  Justice  Tar 
gett  writing  a  decision. 

It  was  impossible  to  bring  the  doctor  to  a  com 
mitment.  "I  do  not  know,  I  cannot  say  .  . 
whether  Mrs  Breddan  should  be  again  subjected  to 
childbirth."  .  .  There  was  a  risk,  and  yet  perhaps 
this  was  a  mere  mischance.  One  can't  be  sure  .  . 
one  cannot  be  too  careful.  She  is  young,  healthy.  . . 
And  yet  there's  a  risk.  .  .  Always,  perhaps?  Better 
wait.  .  .  The  doctor  did  not  feel  he  could  be  respon- 

<35> 


City  Block 

sible.  .  .  Why  not  let  matters  drift  for  a  while? 
was  the  retreat  of  the  doctor. 

Victor  had  ideas  of  his  own.  The  vagueness  of 
Doctor  Lacey  came  into  the  form  of  them  like  a 
gas,  filled  them.  Victor  sat  there,  filling  his  mind 
that  was  already  a  form. 

Victor  was  sure  he  Ipved  his  wife,  and  almost  he 
had  lost  her.  His  savings  were  wiped  out,  there 
were  debts:  he  needed  savings.  Beyond  was  the 
highway  he  must  be  travelling  with  Justice  Tar- 
gett:  a  highway  with  high  barriers  where  one 
needed  to  pay  high  tolls.  Risk,  shock,  wastage.  So 
this  had  been :  so  at  least  for  the  time  of  the  crucial 
years  of  his  career  ahead,  it  must  not  be  again. 

Victor  Breddan  sat  in  a  calm  body.  His  chest 
nut  hair  rose  like  an  ordered  hedge  from  his  nar 
row  forehead.  His  mouth  was  pursed.  A  dimple 
in  his  chin.  His  hands  were  clasped  on  a  knee. 

Then  his  shoulders  moved  upward.  He  got  up 
stiff.  He  undressed.  He  folded  away  his  clothes. 
He  lay  beside  his  wife. 

She  was  moving  warmly  through  a  water  of  deep 
sleep.  Sleep  laved  her,  it  was  passionate  soft  like 
the  touch  of  her  child  within  her  self,  like  her  hand 
laid  on  her  swelling  stomach.  Now,  a  cold  current 
cutting  like  silver  through  the  dark  sea  of  her 
sleep.  .  .  She  awoke.  Victor  beside  her.  He 
slept  soundly:  he  had  filled  up  his  mind. 


<36> 


City  Block 


Rose  from  her  bed  and  moved  about  her  world  a 
tall  gaunt  woman  with  lips  cut  as  by  steel,  with  lips 
moveless  as  she  spoke.  She  lived :  the  world  called 
Sophie,  called  Mrs  Breddan:  she  answered  the 
world. 

Her  husband  was  calm  with  his  filled-up  mind. 
Each  morning  he  went  down  town,  at  evening  re 
turned  laden  with  papers  and  a  weighted  silence 
under  all  his  words.  Her  husband  was  full  with 
his  ambitious  life.  She  came  to  know  the  hard  will 
of  her  husband.  .  .  She  did  not  understand,  but 
she  felt  that  it  was  cruel.  She  received  his  cruelty, 
the  seed  of  fear  that  lives  in  cruelty  like  a  seed 
in  a  hard  shell  she  received  also.  She  was  a  woman, 
she  was  a  receiver  of  seed.  She  was  a  woman  who 
needed  other  seed  than  the  hard  will  of  her  husband. 

He  lay  beside  her  at  night.  He  was  very  near 
and  aloof :  a  dull  knife  that  her  love  threw  herself 
upon,  and  that  would  not  cut  her.  She  was  all 
whole :  like  a  knot  she  lay  writhed  beneath  her  man 
who  would  not  cut  her  and  loose  her.  She  went 
forth  from  him  into  the  hammering  world:  it  also 
would  not  loose  her.  She  was  in  no  way  burst 
open. 

Anna  Suchy  kneaded  her  bread,  nursed  her  child : 
with  stout  strong  arms  she  held  and  released  her 
husband.  She  was  a  multitude  of  duties.  Her  eyes 
were  a  little  closer  upon  the  bareness  of  her  face. 
She  had  no  time  to  visit  Sophie  in  her  flat.  Sophie 

<37> 


City  Block 

came  more  and  more  to  her,  explainless,  silent. 

Anna  was  glad.  She  bustled  and  chattered  about 
the  silence  of  her  friend  like  a  flock  of  sparrows 
about  a  branch  in  winter.  Wherever  her  duties 
took  her,  Sophie  was  willing  to  be.  Sophie  lived  in 
the  need  of  helping,  helping  no  matter  how  with 
Hilda.  But  Anna  was  a  woman  and  a  mother, 
simple  and  elemental  beyond  help.  She  had  her 
nest  to  build,  her  child  to  nurture :  like  any  female : 
built  to  work  alone.  Motherhood  came  from 
Anna's  fingers  like  its  intricate  web  from  a  spider's 
spinnerets.  Sophie  sat  silent :  at  times  she  held  the 
child,  placed  her  in  the  crib,  moved  the  crib.  She 
sat  with  still  eyes  following  the  mother's  hands 
and  lips  as  she  washed  the  baby. 

Sophie  came  to  swing  with  a  dull  beat  between 
her  emptiness  and  her  friend's  fullness.  She  dwelt 
nowhere*  Neither  her  world  nor  the  other  world 
could  she  take  wholly  to  her.  She  swung,  dully. 
Her  mouth  was  very  still.  Her  eyes,  seeking, 
swung  contrariwise  to  her  imprisoned  body.  She 
was  in  conflict :  a  slow  dizziness  came  to  live  within 
the  eyes  of  Sophie. 


She  knew  that  Anna  loved  her.  She  was  thank 
ful.  She  was  thankful  as  a  mute  creature,  as  a  cat 
is  thankful  who  gleans  of  a  strange  creature's  love 
the  right  to  lie  by  a  stove.  And  Anna  in  her  love 
for  Sophie  was  moved  out  of  herself:  out  of  her 
comfort,  out  of  her  domain:  into  a  world  of  limit- 

<38> 


City  Block 

less  horizon  whither  her  mind  and  her  instincts 
could  not  follow.  Her  care  for  child  and  man  was 
of  her  flesh.  It  fitted,  it  was  herself,  it  was  within 
her  like  her  heart  that  went  on  working.  Her  love 
for  Sophie  was  not  of  her :  it  stood  upon  her.  Sheer 
and  separate  it  stood  where  God  had  placed  it. 
Her  love  of  man  and  child  was  buried  in  her  like  a 
heart :  it  did  not  see,  it  had  no  need  of  seeing.  Her 
love  for  this  woman  who  came  and  did  nothing  and 
was  silent  was  an  Eye  upon  her.  It  looked  out.  It 
beheld.  But  what  it  beheld  it  could  not  bring  to 
Anna's  mind  in  words.  For  Anna  had  no  under 
standing  of  the  beholding  of  her  love.  She  could 
be  only  gentle  to  her  friend,  and  chatter  cheerily: 
see  and  be  sorry  how  Sophie  was  unhappy. 

Sophie  walked  westward  through  the  high  brim 
ming  Block  .  .  through  others  growing  gradually 
neater,  harsher,  less  alive  .  .  to  the  Park. 

She  sat  among  children. 

They  wreathed  about  her  in  curves  and  flares  of 
movement  that  had  her  heart  for  center.  They  were 
about  her  as  her  feelings  within  her.  Little  boys 
with  serious  mouths,  in  leather  leggings  and  fur 
caps;  little  girls,  gold-curled,  bundled  in  blue 
wool  .  .  played,  shouted,  leaped  like  particles  of 
light  in  a  concentric  rainbow.  Sophie  sat  still  in 
the  cold  air,  on  the  cold  bench,  feeling  their  lumi 
nous  warmth. 

Aside  her,  on  benches,  thrust  away  from  her 
world,  nurses  in  hard  lines.  She  saw  them  talking 

<39> 


City  Block 

among  themselves,  sufficient  among  themselves, 
opaque  to  children.  Hard  voices  thrust  back,  to  the 
world  of  children,  orders.  Voices  of  women  were 
brittle  and  weak  beside  this  chaos  of  colors. 

Sophie's  agony  was  bright  with  the  dancing  col 
ors  of  children.  Her  agony  was  her  life:  she  sat 
cold  and  still,  but  there  was  her  agony  within  the 
flames  of  children,  her  life  .  .  burning  her,  making 
her  yet  warm. 

Nurses  were  long  strokes  blotting.  They  cov 
ered  something  Sophie  could  not  see.  .  . 

Across  the  walk,  alone,  sat  a  nurse  in  blue.  Blue 
cape  caught  her  slender  shoulders.  Blue  brimless 
bonnet,  tucked  with  white  organdie  bow  beneath 
white  pointed  chin  .  .  sat  clear  on  clear  hair. 
Sophie's  eyes  met  eyes  that  drew  her.  She  crossed 
and  sat  with  the  nurse  on  the  green  bench.  She 
said  no  word.  Sophie  and  the  nurse  felt  each  other, 
saying  no  word. 

A  boy  played  with  a  hoop.  He  beat  it  savagely 
with  his  stick  when  it  refused  to  roll:  he  got  on  his 
knees  to  beat  it  savagely.  He  beat  at  the  heart  of 
Sophie.  .  . 

Suddenly  she  said:  "The  mothers — all  the  moth 
ers  of  all  these  children — what  do  they  do  ?    Where 
are  they?     They're  not  all  working,  are  they?— 
they're  not  all  dead?  .  ." 

The  blue  nurse  did  not  turn. 

"All  dead,"  she  answered. 

"All  dead"  was  a  high  hard  stroke  of  cloud,  it 
beat,  it  broke  the  dancing  of  the  children.  .  .  Chil- 

<40> 


City  Block 

dren   bled   and    drooped  .  .  children    danced   no 
more.  .  .  "All  dead." 

Sophie  got  up.    She  walked  away,  slow. 
She  walked  away  from  a  world  whose  heart  she 
was.     She  could  no  longer  bear  this  being  its  heart. 
She  walked  away  from  her  heart,  she  walked  to 
her  flat. 

She  opened,  shut  the  door.  She  sat  in  a  chair. 
She  was  not  conscious  of  her  passage  from  the 
Park. 

It  was  late  morning.  She  did  not  stir.  Sun 
placed  a  ringer  on  her  foot.  His  finger  rose.  His 
finger  rose.  .  .  It  lit  the  matted  hair  on  her  ear. 
She  had  not  stirred. 

Her  husband  entered.     She  did  not  stir.  .  . 
She  turned  her  head,  heavy  .  .  looked  at  her 
man  with  a  look  so  weighted  it  took  time  to  reach 
him.    He  bent  and  kissed  her. 
"Tired,  sweetheart?" 

.  .  A  happening  before  her  eyes  she  had  not 
known  when  it  was  born  in  her.  A  tall  young 
man  .  .  almost  a  boy  .  .  with  thick  hair,  thin 
hands,  as  she  passes  coming  home  through  the 
Block,  a  tall  blond  boy — he  stops :  he  looks  at  me : 
he  is  graceful  standing. 

— Tender  inquiry  in  his  eyes,  as  not  now  in  my 
husband's!  .  .  . 

Sophie  flung  herself  into  her  husband's  arms. 
She  felt  his  hands  holding  her  body,  claiming  it, 
drinking  it,  that  way  he  had  .  .  hands  eager  for 
themselves. 


City  Block 

"Me  .  .  me!"  she  cried  silently  in  her  throat. 
He  kissed  her.     He  was  very  content.      —She 
loves  me. 


3 

Anna  was  small  and  ashamed,  half  suppliant, 
half  exultant  before  the  tense  high  body  of  her 
friend.  Sophie's  face  was  turned  away  in  order 
not  to  see:  now  her  body  saw  and  it  throbbed  like 
steel  against  her  naked  nerves. 

Anna  was  going  to  have  another  baby. 

Coming  that  day  into  her  kitchen  Sophie  knew 
this.  She  said  nothing,  her  neck  strained  fiercely 
now  with  her  averted  face.  She  turned  her  eyes 
full  to  the  pleading  eyes  of  Anna:  she  placed  her 
hands  on  Anna's  shoulders.  She  kissed  her  eyes. 

"Have  you  known  long?" 

"No — I — just  .  ."  Anna  was  pale,  eyes 
brimmed.  She  took  Sophie's  hand,  the  other 
hand  .  .  stroked  them  together,  held  them  hot 
against  her  cheek.  "You  are  so  wonderful  1"  she 
exclaimed. 

"So  wonderful,"  smiled  Sophie. 


Great  change.  Sophie  no  longer  yearned  to  do 
caring  things  for  Hilda.  She  was  glad  now  of 
Anna's  subjective  motherhood.  She  did  not 
realise,  in  its  true  terms,  this  change.  She  sat  in 
Anna's  kitchen  more  at  peace:  less  hungry:  peace 

<42> 


City  Block 

was  nearer  .  .  waiting,  waiting  .  .  and  this  she 
accepted,  docilely,  mute,  as  a  driven  beast  after  the 
work-day  night. 

The  months  went.  Anna  was  heavier,  more  lan 
guid:  she  allowed  her  friend  to  do  more  things  for 
her.  She  allowed  her  to  sweep  the  kitchen,  to  bring 
fresh  water  to  the  room  of  Mr  Kandro.  She 
allowed  her  to  scrub  the  floors.  She  gave  her  or 
ders.  When  Sophie  broke  a  dish:  "My!  how  can 
you  be  so  careless?" 

Sophie  was  in  peace.  She  did  not  look  at  Hilda. 
She  came  at  length  not  even  to  look  at  Anna. 
Nearly  all  days,  as  the  time  grew  near,  she  came 
to  Anna  and  helped  her.  She  needed  to  be  near 
her  .  .  near  her  in  order  to  be  waiting,  in  order 
to  find  the  heart  of  waiting.  .  .  She  needed  not  to 
see  her.  She  helped  her. 


Sophie  hated  children. 

She  walked  to  the  Park  through  the  summer 
streets  that  were  lush  with  them,  that  were  a  surge 
and  a  delirium  of  children;  streets  overflowed  with 
shimmering  boys  and  girls,  streets  banked  with 
heavy  women,  walled  with  arrogant  women's  bellies. 
But  she  walked  always  on.  She  walked  as  if  she 
had  been  swimming  through  a  sea.  If  she  stopped 
she  must  sink.  No  Park  bench,  no  heat,  no  shade 
of  a  thick  tree  could  make  her  stop.  .  .  Until  she 
was  in  her  flat,  limp,  with  dry  eyes  and  with  a  skin 
scorched  by  the  passion  she  had  walked  through. 

<43> 


City  Block 

Walking,  she  did  not  perspire.  Seated  still, 
she  was  soon  drenched  with  sweat. 

She  saw  the  tall  man — almost  a  boy,  finely  tall — 
with  thick  hair,  thin  hands,  whose  eyes,  looking  at 
her,  gave  her  a  tender  touch.  She  did  not  look  at 
him  straight,  he  was  in  her  mind.  He  had  a 
long,  gentle  face,  pointed  chin,  blue  eyes.  He  was 
good  somehow  in  his  rough  shirt  and  his  rough 
tweed  suit  and  his  heavy  shoes  that  showed  the 
grace  of  his  ankles.  He  was  frightened  of  her. 
He  was  like  a  woman.  He  was  this  boy,  forever 
sweet  in  her  averted  mind  where  he  stood  aloof, 
slenderly,  silent.  .  . 

.  .  .  He  walked  direct  in  her  path.  She  was 
flanked  by  warring  children,  earnest  as  only  chil 
dren.  They  were  both  blocked  by  children.  They 
had  to  stand,  facing  each  other,  till  the  tangle  un- 
swarmed. 

She  saw  him  blush.  His  face  was  close.  His 
eyes  went  out  to  hers,  asking  a  question.  Her  lips 
that  were  always  moveless  quivered. 

"You  are  unhappy,"  she  heard  him. 

Her  breathing  was  brutal  strokes  against  her 
breast  .  .  against  an  iron  bar  clamped  on  her 
breasts. 

"Can't  we  go  to  the  Park  .  .  and  talk  it  over?" 
She  heard  him  above  the  clamor  of  her  breathing. 

"No:  I  am  married."  She  heard  herself  beneath 
the  clamor  and  weight  of  her  breathing. 

"But  you're  unhappy!"  She  thought  her  breast 
would  break  with  this  clamor  of  her  breathing.  .  . 


City  Block 

She  saw  his  eyes  holding  her.  She  saw  his  mouth 
part,  break  with  indecision.  Her  breathing  less 
ened.  The  iron  bar  was  tight.  Since  his  mouth 
was  so,  she  was  able  to  pass  him. 

.  .  .  She  said  to  herself:  "Am  I  unhappy?" 
She  said  to  herself:  "Why  should  I  .  .  just  I  .  . 
be  unhappy  so?" 

Then  her  thought  turned:  "I  am  unhappy." 
She  was  afraid.  Each  time  this  thought  came  to 
her  came,  too,  the  young  man  who  had  taught  her. 
She  did  not  want  this.  She  put  away  the  thought — 
thought  of  the  young  man  also.  All  her  thought, 
all  her  feeling  were  deep  tangled  in  this  thought. 
She  came,  more  and  more,  more  and  more  easily, 
to  put  away  all  her  thought,  all  her  feeling. 

When  she  saw  him  in  the  Block,  it  was  she  who 
looked  at  him,  like  reaching  down  for  a  Word  that 
she  had  buried.  It  was  he  who  could  not  look 
straight:  his  face  was  clouded:  turning  away  from 
her  his  face,  he  turned  into  some  inner  shadow. 


Anna  went  to  bed,  her  child  was  a  splendid  girl, 
they  christened  her  Louisa. 

Sophie  shut  one  dim  door,  the  hall  was  a  black 
stroke  upon  her  cheek,  she  opened  the  other  door. 
It  was  late  afternoon  and  she  must  prepare  her  hus 
band's  supper.  She  had  been  with  Anna  who  lay 
in  bed,  very  moist,  very  chatterful,  eager  to  get  up. 
For  Anna's  feet  and  hands  knew  how  to  do  things. 
But  her  tongue  was  awkward.  It  was  easier  to  do 

<45> 


City  Block 

than  to  tell  Sophie  how.  She  was  hot  and  moist 
and  comfortless  in  bed:  healthy  already:  ready 
again  to  begin. 

She  was  cross  with  Sophie,  giving  her  difficult 
orders,  cross  also  with  Mr  Kandro  who  came  early 
in  order  to  be  of  use,  these  days  with  Anna  in  bed. 
The  big  dark  man  moved  noiselessly  about,  trying 
to  be  of  use.  The  tops  of  his  cheeks  gleamed  white 
about  the  massed  black  beard:  the  white  of  his 
eyes  gleamed  under  toppling  brows.  He  was  gentle 
and  stupid;  when  Anna  was  cross  he  smiled  at 
Sophie,  and  Sophie  who  almost  never  smiled  felt 
warm  and  smiled — she  couldn't  to  him — at  Anna. 

"Do  you  think  Louisa  is  a  pretty  name?"  Sophie 
asked  Victor. 

"It  will  do.    Why?" 

"That's  what  they've  called— Suchy's  new  little 
girl." 

Victor  felt  vaguely  a  strangeness  in  Sophie's 
choice  of  words:  their  dim  recording  of  a  world 
infinitely  beyond  his  mind.  He  was  cheerful  to 
night:  he  had  many  things  to  say:  all  else  faded. 

"Well  dear,  I've  good  news.  I  can  get  named 
for  Assemblyman  if  I  want  to !  And  there's  money 
in  the  Bank." 

He  got  up,  he  stood  behind  Sophie's  chair,  he 
placed  his  hands  about  her  throat:  "Now  you  tell 
me,  do  I  want  it?" 

His  hands  were  a  little  heavy.  Sophie  was  glad 
she  could  say : 

"You  are  choking  me,  Victor." 
<46> 


City  Block 

He  slipped  his  grasp  to  her  chin,  tilted  her  head. 

"It's  up  to  you.  You  decide,  Darling.  You 
decide  everything.  Shall  I  go  to  the  Assembly?" 

"What  do  they  do  in  the  Assembly?" 

"Don't  you  know?    Make  laws." 

"You  will  make  laws?" 

He  leaned  and  kissed  her  forehead.  He  was 
very  sure  of  himself,  sure  of  his  wife,  sure  of  the 
kind  of  laws  he  would  help  make  in  the  Assembly. 

"Well?" 

"Laws  are  funny  things,"  said  Sophie. 

"Women  are  funny  things,"  Victor,  a  little  hurt, 
stepped  away. 

"Women  are  serious  things.  .  .  Or  aren't  they?" 
.  .  .  She  got  up. 

"Tell  me,  Victor,"  she  said,  "tell  me  .  .  of 
course,  dear,  I  want  you  to  go  to  the  Assembly." 

He  sat  and  pulled  her  down  to  him,  and  placed 
her  on  his  knees.  She  was  stiffly  erect.  She  was 
as  tall  as  he,  her  head  now  above  him.  Above 
the  neat  containment  of  his  profile,  her  full  face 
was  smothered  flame.  But  she  did  not  burn  him. 
He  smiled,  living  in  his  neat  life,  thinking  in  his 
neat  thoughts,  speaking  in  his  well-ordered  words. 
She  burned  in  smother. 

His  plans  .  .  his  ambitions.  He  must  remain 
free  as  he  was  .  .  free  of  debts,  free  of  worry.  With 
her  whole  to  stand  by  him  and  share  his  plans,  his 
ambitions.  As  he  spoke,  her  head  moved  up  and 
down,  slowly,  jerkily,  in  a  sort  of  sardonic  rhythm 
with  his  words.  Her  breasts  ached. 


City  Block 

She  got  up.  She  placed  her  two  forefingers 
stiff  against  his  eyes  so  that  he  needed  to  shut  them. 

"What  would  you  do,"  she  said,  "if  I  put  out 
your  eyes?" 

He  laughed. 

She  pressed  her  two  forefingers.  She  felt  the 
bulb  of  his  eyes  give  in.  She  withdrew  her  fingers 
into  fists.  Fists  very  hard  and  fierce  beat 
against  her  breasts,  again  and  again,  in  silence, 
where  they  ached.  He  did  not  hear  their  beating — 
with  shut  eyes. 


Victor,  high-keyed  and  glowing  as  never  before, 
was  drab  to  Sophie  as  never  before.  He  was  out  of 
her  world:  he  was  happy  and  strong  as  she  had 
never  made  him  in  the  earliness  of  their  love,  when 
he  was  a  boy  laying  his  head  on  her  lap  and  letting 
his  fingers  blindly  stray  to  her  face,  to  her  mouth 
which  kissed  them.  It  was  terrible,  seeing  him  a 
man,  and  turned  to  a  world  that  seemed  to  love  him 
since  it  made  him  glow,  and  that  was  not  she.  He 
was  less  hers,  less  lovely  to  her.  She  saw  him  come 
in,  bright-eyed,  sharp-worded,  in  new  clothes  smart, 
he  was  drab  to  her.  He  told  her  of  his  nomination, 
she  stood  as  a  stranger  willing  to  applaud  as  if  that 
had  been  all  he  could  want  further  of  her.  He  spoke 
of  his  meetings,  of  his  assurance  of  success;  he 
showed  her  letters;  he  had  hushed  words  for  the 
silent  work  of  Justice  Targett.  And  she  beheld 

<48> 


City  Block 

him,  outside  the  circle  of  her  flame,  like  a  black  dead 
world  that  had  been  once  within  it.  He  asked  her 
if  she  did  not  wish  to  come  to  the  campaign  meet 
ings,  she  answered  yes  .  .  and  knew  for  the  first 
time  she  had  lied  to  her  man. 

He  did  not  press  her.    He  was  too  happy  in  him 
self,  letting  this  new  world  tune  him  up  and  away. 


She  was  alone  now  evenings,  also,  alone.  She 
lay  on  her  back,  dressed,  on  her  bed,  and  tried  to 
recall  a  world  in  which  it  seemed  to  her  she  had 
been  alive.  A  world  to  which  she  woke  with  sun 
light  dancing  under  her  eyelids.  A  world  in  which, 
walking  from  her  flat  to  the  street,  there  was  pur 
pose  and  cheer.  A  world  in  which  it  was  natural  to 
take  food  in  order  to  go  on  living  in  it :  natural  to 
love  in  order  to  feel  that  she  was  living  in  it.  A 
world  in  which  the  hours,  for  all  the  pain  they  held, 
pointed  hopeward,  sunward :  where  though  at  times 
the  earth  was  packed  with  pain,  about  the  earth 
was  the  Air,  all  about:  infinite  spaces  full  of  the 
Sun.  .  .  She  lay  on  her  back  and  reached  for  her 
man  who  was  hers,  who  had  his  hands  upon  her 
and  his  lips.  She  could  grasp  nothing.  Her  mind 
was  dull.  It  had  a  way  of  stopping  upon  a  crack 
in  the  wall  as  if  it  had  been  an  abyss. 

She  left  Anna  alone.  She  lay  on  her  bed,  she 
sat  in  her  chair.  When  Victor  was  not  to  be  home 
to  supper,  often  she  cooked  no  food  for  herself. 

<49> 


City  Block 

Once  when  the  bell  rang,  and  she  knew  it  was  Anna, 
she  did  not  get  up. 


Anna  said  to  herself:  "Sophie  is  very  busy  with 
her  husband.  He  is  running  for  the  Election.  She 
must  be  helping  him  or  something."  Anna  did  not 
believe  this,  she  did  not  know  what  she  believed: 
this  she  managed  to  say  to  herself.  It  was  enough. 

She  was  busy.  Louisa  was  a  big  child  for  her 
four  months.  Already  she  gave  her  a  little  milk 
from  the  bottle  each  day.  The  hands  and  the  feet 
of  Anna  forever  at  work  in  her  rooms  did  not  miss 
Sophie.  Her  eyes  missed  her:  but  her  eyes  spoke 
feebly,  when  her  hands  and  her  feet  were  at  work. 

She  sat,  half  turned  away  from  the  kitchen  table. 
In  her  hand  was  a  large  piece  of  buttered  bread 
and  cheese.  In  her  lap  lay  easefully  balanced  a 
cup  of  coffee.  Cake  was  on  the  table.  Close  to  the 
door  which  was  the  safest  place  sat  Hilda  who  was 
two:  looking  at  her  mother,  crooning  and  begging 
for  food. 

"No,  you — you  have  had  your  lunch.  Let  Mama 
eat,  once,  won't  you?  You'll  get  so  fat,  you,  I 
won't  have  room  for  you  here.  .  .  I'll  have  to  put 
you  in  the  street  if  you  eat  all  the  time.  .  .  Do  you 
want  me — you — to  put  you  in  the  street?" 

Hilda  forged  across  vast  spaces  to  the  table. 
Her  hands  beat  against  the  wooden  leg  that  held 
the  top  that  held  the  cake  she  needed.  Anna  gave 
her  a  piece.  It  crumbled  against  Hilda's  rosy 

<50> 


City  Block 

mouth  and  fell.  Hilda  followed  to  the  sight  of  her 
feet  where  the  cake  lay  ready.  She  was  satis 
fied.  An  occasional  glance  up  the  table  leg  where 
was  the  table  top  and  the  cake — when  these  crumbs 
were  gone. 

Anna  talked  with  her  mouth  full  of  cake  and 
coffee.  She  was  very  soft  and  comfortable  in  her 
kitchen:  her  grey  dress  was  warm  like  the  skin  of 
her  cheeks. 

"You'll  be  a  fatty!"  she  warned.  "There."  With 
a  fat  shoe  she  shoved  a  piece  of  the  cake  into  Hilda's 
reach. 

The  door  opened. 

Anna  thrust  her  coffee  away  and  jumped  up, 
startled. 

"Michael!" 

Michael  was  not  due  until  late  that  evening.  But 
still  it  was  he.  Solid  and  heavy  and  sure,  he  stood 
in  the  door. 

"It's  me,"  he  announced. 

"What  has  happened!"  Anna's  mind  raced 
through  the  catastrophes  that  his  standing  there 
excluded.  Her  children  were  alive,  Louisa  slept  in 
her  crib,  Michael  was  alive  also — not  sick,  not 
injured. 

"They  telephoned  me  .  .  when  I  got  to  the  Barn 
they  give  me  the  message.  It's  Papa." 

"He's  dead?" 

"Max  says  for  us  to  come  right  over,  while  he's 
alive.  I  came  back." 

He  stood  there,  his  cap  in  a  fat  hard  hand,  turn- 


City  Block 

ing  a  round  face  upon  his  commanding  wife.  His 
face  was  slightly  tilted  to  one  side,  and  his  eyes 
moved  from  Anna  to  the  floor.  Anna  knew  he  was 
suffering.  He  was  ill  at  ease  in  suffering.  Almost, 
he  was  embarrassed.  He  looked  a  little  as  he  looked 
to  her  when,  for  a  reason  connected  with  his  food, 
he  sulked.  But  he  was  warmer,  more  like  a  child: 
in  his  own  soul,  was  softer  than  when  he  sulked. 

Her  mind  worked. 

"I  can  get  Sophie.  We  can  be  back  .  .  when 
do  you  think?" 

"In  a  few  hours.  Only  we  go  there  and  see  him. 
I  can  wait  till  he  dies.  You  don't  have  to." 

He  blocked  the  door.  She  had  to  take  him  by  the 
hand,  lead  him  to  a  chair.  His  eyes  looked  diag 
onally  down  to  the  floor  about  Hilda,  inattentive, 
who  cried  against  the  imperviousness  of  table  legs 
upon  whose  top  was  cake.  So  he  sat:  Anna  rang 
Sophie's  bell. 

She  rang  it  again,  again. 

Sophie  stood  before  her  with  swollen  eyes  as  if 
she  had  slept.  She  wore  a  dark  blue  wrapper.  It 
was  open  at  the  front:  Anna  saw  that  Sophie  was 
half  dressed.  She  wore  no  corsets. 

It  went  through  her  mind  that  Sophie  looked 
sick — or  funny.  She  knew  the  inconsequence  of 
illness  in  a  woman,  when  a  duty  speaks. 

"Sophie,"  she  said,  "my  man's  papa — he's  dying 
— over  in  Brooklyn.  We  got  to  go.  I'll  be  back 
by  supper.  Will  you  come  over  and  take  care  of 
Louisa?  Just  for  a  few  hours,  Sophie  dear.  There's 

<52> 


City  Block 

milk  over  the  stove  to  give  to  her — at  five.  I  have 
just  nursed  her.  That's  enough.  She'll  sleep  most 
likely  all  the  time.  Will  you  come?" 

"Right  away?" 

"Right  away." 

Sophie  shut  the  dim  door  behind  her.  They 
stepped  in  unison  across  the  hall.  The  other  door 
received  them. 

Anna  stuffed  her  body  into  a  coat,  found  her 
hat.  She  changed  her  shoes.  She  had  few  clothes 
for  going  out. 

"I'll  take  Hilda  into  the  bedroom  to  be  near  the 
baby,"  Sophie  thought.  She  looked  long  at  the 
man  who  stood  in  the  hall,  fingering  his  cap,  with 
eyes  forever  diagonally  downcast. — Father  of  chil 
dren.  She  said  no  word  to  him.  He  bowed,  and 
she  said  no  word,  she  looked  away,  saw  him  still : — 
father  of  children. 

She  was  alone  .  .  behind  the  other  door. 

She  stood  a  moment,  looking  where  they  had 
left.  She  felt  alone.  She  pinned  her  wrapper  high 
at  her  throat.  She  remembered  the  children  with 
whom  she  was  alone  . .  not  alone  then.  — In  my  own 
flat  alone:  not  here.  .  .  There,  with  the  truth  of 
loneliness,  she  had  come  not  to  feel  it.  Here,  where 
there  were  many  things,  many  voices,  lives,  she  was 
not  alone,  she  felt  lonely. 

A  faint  shiver  ran  from  her  stomach  to  her  shoul 
ders.  She  jerked  it  off  through  her  ears.  She 
walked  into  the  kitchen.  Hilda  looked  at  her,  sus 
pended  in  her  ceaseless  hopeful  effort  to  reach  the 

<53> 


City  Block 

top  of  a  table  where  there  was  cake.  Sophie  took 
a  bit  of  the  cake,  placed  it  firmly  in  Hilda's  palm. 
She  lifted  her. 

"Hold  on  tight,  now,"  she  said.  She  carried  her 
out. 

Through  the  hall  of  the  flat  she  looked  to  the 
front  room  of  Mr  Kandro.  She  noticed  that  it 
was  far  away  .  .  she  did  not  think  it  strange  that 
it  should  seem  so.  His  door  was  open.  Sunlight 
was  sharp  there  like  a  flame  burning  on  a  black 
stick.  It  made  her  know  that  she  had  on  a  wrapper 
and  that  she  was  not  presentable  if  she  should  meet 
him  in  the  hall :  she  forgot  that  she  had  met  already 
Anna's  man,  and  that  she  could  certainly  run  over 
to  her  flat,  get  a  dress,  put  it  on  in  the  Suchy  bed 
room.  —I  have  left  my  key!  It  was  instinct,  be 
fore  she  shut  her  door,  to  feel  that  she  had  her  key. 
This  time  she  had  shut  it,  not  feeling. 

She  went  into  the  bedroom  of  the  Suchys. 

She  forgot  key  and  wrapper.  The  shade  was  up, 
the  room  breathed  quietly.  A  brown  light,  very 
full  in  the  room,  was  its  breath  like  Anna's  breath 
ing  that  came  also  full  from  all  her  body. 

Sophie  closed  the  door  at  her  back,  stood  still, 
holding  Hilda  in  her  arms.  There  was  the  double- 
bed,  covered  with  a  great  patch  quilt.  The  bed  was 
quiet  and  proud:  the  quilt  with  its  blacks  and  reds 
was  vibrance  making  the  bed  move  .  .  lifting  it, 
bringing  the  corners  of  the  room  into  a  sort  of 
wooden  dance.  At  the  bed's  side  was  a  low  cot:  at 
its  foot  the  baby,  Louisa,  slept  in  her  open  crib. 

<54> 


City  Block 

There  was  a  bureau,  littered.  There  was  a  rocking 
chair. 

Dominant  the  bed.  Under  the  arrogant  vibrance 
of  its  quilt  lived  depths.  Depths  quiet.  Sleep  of 
a  man  and  woman,  sleeping  and  waking  together. 
Birth.  Still  moment  before  birth — just  a  moment 
was  it  in  her  long  perspective — when  man  gave 
wholly,  shattered,  gave  himself,  the  world  that  was 
his,  the  world  and  its  infinite  reaches  forward  and 
back — and  when  woman  took.  .  . 

Sophie  went  quietly  to  the  rocker,  still  holding 
Hilda :  sat  down.  The  child  was  hushed.  She  held 
her  cake  in  her  tight  fist.  She  did  not  eat  of  it. 
Her  eyes  were  wide.  She  held  her  body  upright  in 
the  woman's  arms.  She  was  hushed. 

Sophie  faced  toward  the  crib  and  the  bed.  She 
remained  very  quiet,  long.  She  arose.  She  placed 
Hilda  upon  the  cot.  The  child  lay  docilely  on  her 
back,  her  eyes  still  wide.  Sophie  crossed  to  the 
bed's  other  side.  For  a  moment  she  peered  toward 
the  window.  Then  she  lay  down,  softly,  upon  the 
bed.  She  did  not  touch  the  pillows:  her  face  was 
flat  below  them:  her  body  was  at  an  angle.  The 
palms  of  her  hands  moved  measuredly  at  her  side, 
up  and  down,  rubbing  the  quilt,  as  if  they  sought 
the  quiet  deep  beneath  it. 

Her  hands  came  to  rest.    She  slept. 

Hilda's  eyes  closed  also,  above  her  little  cot.  She 
slept.  .  . 

The  baby  awoke  .  .  and  began  to  cry. 

The  baby  cried  low,  in  measure,  as  if  she  were 
<55> 


City  Block 

prepared  to  cry  a  long  time.    She  cried  a  long  time. 

The  baby's  voice  was  a  little  green  vine  stringing 
its  way  across  the  brown  breath  of  the  room.  It 
clambered  up  into  the  air:  it  lay  athwart  the  win 
dow:  it  drooped  upon  the  bed,  touching  Sophie's 
hands  with  its  tender  shoots.  It  touched  her  ears 
that  slept  beneath  her  hair. 

Sophie  awoke.  She  saw  the  room  full  of  the 
green  tracery  of  the  baby's  crying. 

"Yes,  yes." 

She  arose.  She  took  Louisa  from  her  crib, 
smoothing  her  dresses.  She  took  her  to  the  chair 
and  held  her  against  her  bosom  and  began  to  rock. 

Louisa  cried.  Her  crying  was  the  small  white 
buds  upon  the  vine. 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  Sophie. 

She  held  the  baby  forward  in  her  arms  and  looked 
at  her.  She  placed  her  lips  on  the  wet  cheeks,  on 
the  blinking  eyes,  on  the  hair. 

"Yes,  yes." 

Holding  her  to  one  side,  with  her  right  hand  she 
loosed  her  wrapper.  She  let  fall  her  left  breast 
free  from  its  scant  sheath.  Very  tenderly,  very 
closely,  with  eyes  far  away,  she  held  the  baby 
against  it. 

Louisa's  crying  was  red  small  flowers  upon  the 
green  of  her  hunger. 

"Yes,  yes,"  Sophie  crooned  again.  She  pressed 
the  baby  closer.  The  crying  was  a  flame  running 
fast. 

<56> 


City  Block 

Sophie  thrust  her  forward  upon  her  lap.  The 
baby  lay  there,  upon  her  back,  her  fists  crumpled, 
her  face  tortured :  a  leaping  passion  she  lay  there. 

Sophie's  hands  were  very  fierce,  very  swift.  She 
tore  the  wrapper  from  her  shoulders.  Down  to  her 
waist  she  rent  away  her  clothes.  Her  shoulders  were 
sharp  and  white.  Her  breasts  .  .  small,  pear- 
shaped,  firm  .  .  were  the  breasts  of  a  tall  virgin. 

Once  more  she  gathered  the  baby  from  the  torn 
clothes  that  lay  about  her  on  her  lap:  held  her 
close.  The  nipples  stood  sheer.  She  crushed  Lou 
isa  against  them. 

The  infant  wailed:  Sophie  pressed  more  close. 
The  wail  was  a  shriek. 

Sophie  had  no  sense  of  her  self  separate  from 
this  life  upon  her.  She  had  no  sense  of  its  shriek 
above  the  shriek  of  her  flesh.  She  folded  her  arms 
about  the  infant  and  crushed  her  close,  feeling  her 
breasts  crush,  bruise,  feeling  her  breasts  swell  out 
and  encase  the  child  and  the  shriek.  She  drew  her 
hands  about  her  naked  shoulders,  she  pressed  with 
her  hands  and  with  her  throat,  with  all  her  impris 
oning  self  she  pressed,  that  had  so  long  pressed  in, 
what  now  was  sweetly  escaping.  She  moved  up 
and  down  in  her  chair,  pressing,  pressing. 

"Yes,  yes,"  she  said.  And  the  child's  shriek  was 
over. 

"Yes,  yes."  .  .  . 

In  the  silence,  she  knew  that  what  had  been 
within,  so  long,  so  terribly  was  now  outside  her. 
A  sagging,  a  cutting  thing  within,  breaking  her 

<57> 


City  Block 

back,  clamping  her  throat,  tugging  the  flesh  of  her 
breasts — now  warm,  now  a  being,  now  a  babe,  at 
her  breast.  And  her  self  flowing  upon  it,  giving  it 
blood  and  milk. 

She  sat  rocking,  crooning.  The  rocking  ceased, 
then  the  crooning. 

She  sat  with  wide  eyes,  wide  lips,  faintly  up 
turned  in  a  smile.  .  . 

Darkness  came  like  smoke  into  the  room,  filling 
at  last  all  of  it  with  a  black  stir  save  the  room's 
center  which  was  still  and  glowed  and  was  a  woman 
.  .  a  half  naked  woman  clasping  a  child's  body. 


<58> 


THREE 

THE  TABLE 


RUDD  stopped  and  saw  the  house  in  which 
he  lived.  He  had  lived  there  years,  he  had 
not  seen  it  before.  It  was  high  and  its  red 
brick  front  was  soiled:  on  the  fourth  floor  of  it, 
hidden  among  close  halls,  in  layers  of  life,  was  his 
flat  and  his  life.  For  the  first  time  he  knew  of  his 
flat — a  place  among  others  in  a  house  among  others. 
For  the  first  time  he  knew  of  his  life.  —Does  this 
mean,  dimly  he  sensed,  it  is  gone?  .  .  Rudd  threw 
his  head  up,  placed  his  hands  in  his  pockets.  With 
his  shoulder,  he  pressed  the  door.  He  went  up  the 
stairs. 

A  spare  tall  man  with  grey  eyes  and  heavy  hands, 
a  rhythm  of  muscle  beneath  the  drab  of  his  suit;  a 
man  with  thin  lips  above  a  jaw  that  was  sheer  yet 
gentle;  a  man  with  shock  of  auburn  hair  to  his 
creaseless  brow  .  .  .  stood  in  the  threshold  of  his 
flat  and  changed.  His  shoulders  stooped,  brow 
folded,  his  eyes  grew  dim.  The  strong  hands 
wavered  faintly  up  and  down.  In  the  inner  room, 
the  hard  breathing  of  his  wife. 

So  she  had  lain  for  weeks.  Breathing  hard  at 
night:  now  night  and  day  breathing  hard.  He 
stood  alone  in  the  bare  room,  separate  by  a  door 
from  the  hard  breathing  of  his  wife.  It  had  begun 
to  fill  his  life  with  its  stertorous  mock :  it  was  crowd- 


City  Block 

ing  out  joy,  gaiety,  assurance  .  .  the  permanent 
sweet  past  he  must  now  face  was  dead. 

He  stood.  .  .  Long  moments.  He  crossed  and 
opened  the  door. 

-This  is  she!  This  is  Mary!  A  woman  lay  in 
the  mussed  bedding.  The  pillows  were  cold  blue 
white  against  her  yellow  face.  The  window  was 
shut.  The  air  was  thick  and  soft,  it  smelt  of  sick 
ness  .  .  a  sort  of  thing  it  was  like  dirty  velvet. 

— This  is  she! 

Her  hair  was  matted  back  from  the  brow  flecked 
red.  Her  mouth  was  open  and  her  eyes  were  shut. 
Dark  lids.  There  was  an  ugly  draw  upon  her  lips : 
—I  have  kissed  them.  They  were  brown.  One 
hand  was  hidden,  one  hand  clutched  harshly  at  the 
heavy  nightgown  upon  the  breast. — I  have  kissed 
it.  It  rose  and  fell  with  a  leaden  rigor. 

"She  is  asleep,"  he  muttered.  He  shut  the  door: 
turned  his  back  to  the  door  and  to  the  room  be 
hind  it. 

He  went  to  the  bare  kitchen  table  in  the  bare 
room's  center.  He  sat  down.  .  . 

Shoulders  tremorously  drawn,  hands  clenching 
widening,  eyes  a-flash  then  bathed  in  their  own 
hot  repression,  made  him  the  picture  of  a  man  who 
has  been  insulted.  He  was  insulted.  This  was  his 
growing  mood.  Without  reason,  without  warning, 
grossly  insulted!  And  as  if  ropes  bound  him,  he 
must  sit  and  take  the  offense. 

— Good  years,  where  are  you?    Years  so  true,  so 
<62> 


City  Block 

steady!  The  one  true  thing!  The  kitchen  gleams 
and  the  lads  come  in  eager.  Dinner  is  ready.  The 
lips  of  Mary  are  ready  for  my  own.  You  are 
dim  .  .  I  will  not  remember  you,  yet  you  invade  me, 
lovely  years,  like  a  foe.  .  . 

— The  kitchen  sings  grey.  There  is  a  veil  on 
our  home,  a  veil  of  mourning.  The  flat  has  fallen 
down  into  the  grey  house  of  many  flats  upon  a  dirty 
street ! 

Rudd's  eyes  were  above  the  table,  took  in  the 
steady  rough  grain  of  the  wood  that  was  just  below 
them  and  that  so  quickly  ran  beyond  his  eyes. 

Last  Christmas  they  danced  at  the  Ball.  They 
danced  together.  — The  sun  came,  made  the  other 
women  look  like  painted  pictures  smudged.  The 
sun  came,  made  my  Mary  glow  like  the  sun!  .  .  or 
like  the  flowers  she  cared  for  in  the  bedroom  win 
dow.  The  flowers  have  died.  They  went  home 
singing,  silently  though  it  was.  For  all  the  night 
they  had  been  dancing  together,  though  the  men 
made  faces  and  the  women  too.  Rudd  was  sure  of 
that,  for  Mary  told  him.  Ay,  the  women  too.  Such 
a  wife  .  .  such  was  his  wife. 

And  to  her  .  .  like  a  flower  slender,  pretty,  with 
round  freckled  face,  blue  eyes,  to  her  who  had 
chosen  him  from  a  full  field  .  .  he  must  bring  a 
Doctor!  Dark  dank  blight  on  her  truth  .  .  a  lie  of 
darkness  making  her  truth  less  true.  And  again  a 
Doctor,  and  again  .  .  and  again. 

The  Lodge  doctor  he  has  discharged.  For  he 
<63> 


City  Block 

shook  his  head,  he  looked  down  at  his  womanish 
hands :  "I  wish  I  could  encourage  you,  Rudd.  I'll 
be  back  tomorrow/'  .  .  .  Such  nonsense,  innumer 
able  instances  of  that,  with  which  he  built  up  his 
practice  as  bricks  build  up  to  a  wall:  was  his  clean 
Mary  to  be  a  brick  in  a  doctor's  grey  wall  of 
alarms?  —Get  out! 

The  other  doctor  came:  a  money  man.  And 
Rudd  working  nights  to  pay  his  daily  visits  .  .  the 
visit  twice  a  day  .  .  and  the  same  long  face  (paying 
for  that) ,  same  shake  of  a  learned  head,  same  hate 
ful  pious  clasping  of  white  hands.  .  . 

Not  yet  did  Rudd  believe.  What  frightened  him 
was  that  he  could  not  so  steadfastly  deny.  To  do 
so,  needed  an  ever  more  strenuous  summoning  of 
will.  He  did  not  dare  to  discharge  this  doctor.  He 
worked  at  night,  he  joked  with  the  lads.  And  since 
to  be  with  Mary  much  was  to  face  the  doctor's 
truth,  he  did  not  dare  that  either.  Work  helped  in 
this.  But  the  fine  edge  of  Mary's  consciousness 
was  already  blurred,  so  that  perhaps  this  did  not 
make  her  suffer. 

Then  sudden  .  .  the  burst  of  a  storm  through  a 
splintered  door  .  .  belief  in  what  the  doctor  meant 
did  come.  Rudd's  spirit  crumpled,  collapsed. 

Why  work  at  night?  It  was  only  a  matter  of 
time  before  the  end?  What  is  in  time  is  there 
already.  Clear!  Would  he  care  for  funds  then? 

.  .  .  The  hard  wood  table  with  its  steadfast 
grain.  Rudd's  eye  on  the  table.  Good  food  on  it, 
these  many  years.  His  hands  on  it  laughing.  And 

<64> 


City  Block 

Mary's  hand  seeking  his.  And  Andy's  and  Jack's 
.  .  and  the  laughter  of  them  all,  and  the  joy  of 
them  all  .  .  and  their  right!  .  .  their  lives,  one  life, 
wreathing  above  a  table. 

The  table  was  steadfast.  He  had  never  thought 
of  this.  — Tables  come,  tables  go.  I  have  made  a 
table  in  an  hour.  Better  tables  than  this.  A  poorer 
carpenter  than  I  could  make  a  better  table.  For 
tables  come  and  go.  My  happiness,  that  is  the  per 
manent  Thing.  Mary  and  the  lads  in  me.  My 
eyes,  my  heart  that  beats  eternally.  For  when  it 
beats  no  more,  the  world  claps  out.  .  .  The  table  is 
still  there! 

At  first  there  was  a  sly  side  knowledge  helping 
him.  Helping  him  help  the  boys  to  their  food, 
Mary  to  her  medicine  and  the  rest.  Through  all, 
stirring  in  his  mind  this  thought:  " — it's  a  joke. 
Life's  playing  a  joke  on  me.  It's  a  joke  and  will 
pass."  Next-door  was  this  stirring  thought  like 
a  sound  one  hears  from  the  sunny  real  world  .  .  the 
world  is  real  and  the  sun!  ,  .  when  one  is  lost  in  a 
dream  and  the  dream  is  bad. 

— For  this  counts  most!  Carpenter?  Rudd's 
trade,  and  he  was  deft  at  it,  was  nothing  in  his  life 
beyond  a  capable  and  steady  means  to  what  was 
everything.  He  took  pride  in  his  work.  He  had 
a  greater  pride. 

And  here  was  Mary  failing  in  her  part  of  it! 
That's  past  the  joking  stage.  A  man  loses  his  job 
and  the  like.  Things  happen.  That's  life.  But 
this?  That's  past  a  joke!  .  .  Rudd  sits  at  the  old 

<65> 


City  Block 

table,  anger  and  resentment  flood  in  him:  they  are 
about  him  where  had  been  good  hands  and  wreath 
ing  laughter. 

The  door  opens.  A  boy,  tall  for  his  eight  years  . . 
a  slight  fine  lad  with  very  great  deep  eyes  and 
golden  hair  making  them  dark  and  deep,  stands  in 
the  door  with  his  brother  who  is  stocky  and  short 
for  six.  Andy  and  Jack  are  home  from  play  in 
the  street.  Andy  lays  away  his  books,  Jack  his  ball, 
with  a  new  quietness.  They  see  their  father:  a 
bowed  strange  man  it  is,  bowed  over  the  kitchen 
table.  They  do  not  speak  to  him.  Their  feet  pat 
ter  past.  They  go  in  to  their  mother. 

Rudd  was  glad.  He  was  uncomfortable  in  their 
presence.  What  lowered  over  the  home  was  a  loss 
to  them.  Yet  a  loss  in  some  lights  may  be  an  hon 
orable  thing.  They,  little  boys,  could  not  feel  it  as  a 
slur.  But  since  it  was  a  slur  to  himself,  so  palpable, 
Rudd  felt  that  his  sons  must  feel  it.  And  this  was 
unbearable  .  .  that  his  sons  should  see  him  humili 
ated  there.  This,  why  he  was  glad  when  the  two 
lads  went  to  their  mother.  This,  why  he  could  not 
follow. 

The  boys  felt  the  stressed  reserve  in  their  sud 
denly  strange  father  and  left  him  alone.  Their 
voices  were  low  and  their  eyes  vagrant,  in  their 
home. 

They  had  been  born  close  enough  to  life,  they 
had  sprung  up  vivid  and  vital  enough  in  it,  to  have 
a  sentiment  of  what  was  death.  But  also  they  had 
the  candor  of  their  youth  .  .  the  stoical  acceptance 

<66> 


City  Block 

that  inheres  in  want  of  space  or  time  to  conceive 
other.  Their  world,  since  it  partook  of  whatever 
happened,  was  merely  going  on.  Their  father's 
world,  since  it  was  built  on  a  past,  is  disappearing. 

Rudd  sits  quiet  at  the  table,  and  hears  the  door 
close,  gently  shutting  out  the  boys  and  his  wife: 
he  yearns  for  the  grief  he  knows  he  feels  to  over 
whelm  him  as  respite  from  this  far  more  bitter 
sense  of  degradation.  — Are  not  these  the  usual 
things  of  life?  His  mother  lost  three  children  and 
her  husband  before  the  beginning  of  his  memory. 
She  went  on.  Jack  Fabin  fell  from  a  scaffolding 
and  became  a  cripple  with  a  cripple's  mind.  That 
fire  in  the  next  Block  which  had  spared  an  old 
couple  killed  both  their  sons.  .  .  These  things,  he 
found  that  these  things  now  meant  little.  They 
were  vague  unreal  puffs  of  an  air  not  made  to 
breathe.  Every  day  he  read  the  papers  and  they 
were  filled  with  such  calamities  and  jests  of  fortune. 
And  they  too  were  of  a  world  that  in  no  way 
touched  his.  The  mishaps  of  those  he  knew,  the 
reports  in  the  papers,  the  concise  dramas  of  the 
movies  .  .  all  dwelt  outside  alike,  contactless  with 
himself,  brewing  if  anything  a  liquor  of  excitement 
that  he  paid  pennies,  nickels  to  partake  of.  Yes: 
even  the  sorrows  of  his  friends  in  the  last  measure 
had  heightened  the  reality  of  his  own  peace.  Was 
his  sorrow  now  doing  the  same  for  other  calm  spec 
tators?  Was  his  destruction,  somewhere,  a  dime's 
worth  of  fun? 

Rudd  jumped  up,  his  fists  clenched.  He  sank 
<67> 


City  Block 

back  to  his  kitchen  table.  He  could  not  find  this 
'show',  so  he  could  not  destroy  it.  He  could  only 
play  his  part.  .  .  His  thoughts  were  compressed 
and  tight,  slow-moving.  They  drove  into  him  like 
a  blunt  mallet  in  the  hands  of  a  dull  giant.  And 
their  direction  was  downward.  Rudd's  hands  slid 
out  over  the  table,  his  head  fell  on  his  arms.  His 
eyes  were  open.  His  eyes  took  in  very  close  the 
rough  grain  of  the  wood  that  was  just  below  them 
and  that  so  quickly  ran  beyond:  a  hard  meaning 
less  surface  against  his  vision,  which  somehow  in 
the  running  of  the  grain  did  have  a  meaning. 

He  thought  of  nothing.  He  felt,  in  the  nearness 
of  the  table's  surface  shutting  his  sight,  that  he 
himself  was  hidden.  He  found  security  in  this 
opaqueness.  There  was  a  soothing  note  to  the 
sheer  rhyme  of  the  wood.  He  looked  up,  feeling 
his  boys. 

They  stood  slightly  aloof,  taking  him  in.  With 
an  angry  emphasis,  Rudd  threw  up  his  head. 

"Well?" 

He  did  not  know  what  leaned  him  toward  the 
yielding  figures  of  his  sons  .  .  relief  from  the  hard 
face  of  the  table.  Their  tenderness  drew  him  sav 
agely,  revengefully.  Unknowing,  he  envied  and 
abhorred  their  isolating  fitness  for  what  must  come. 

Andy  spoke:  "Mother  fell  asleep  .  .  fell  asleep." 

His  wiry  body  was  protest  to  such  sleep.  His 
hand  clasped  his  brother's.  They  were  two  pro 
tests,  side  by  side,  and  suppliants  before  him. 

<68> 


City  Block 

Rudd  saw  this,  gripped  himself  better.  His 
weakness  had  escaped  them. 

"It's  good  for  mother  to  sleep.    Let  her." 

"It's  not  good!" 

Jack's  words.  But  they  were  not  consciously  his. 
He  said  what  he  felt,  rather  than  what  he  knew. 
His  father  caught  the  austerity  of  this. 

"Run  for  the  doctor!" 

Andy  went. 

Rudd  caught  Jack  in  his  arms  and  lifted  him  to 
his  knees.  He  held  him  straight,  vising  his  shoul 
ders,  seeking  his  warm  gaze.  He  found  it.  He 
held  it.  His  child's  spirit  flowed  to  him. 

They  sat  there,  motionless  upright.  And  neither 
of  them  knew,  while  the  child  sat  on  his  father's 
knee,  that  it  was  he  who  was  strong  and  who  sus 
tained  the  other.  But  both  of  them  knew  that  the 
woman  who  slept  was  dead. 


The  gaunt  silent  eloquent  remain  of  Rudd's 
pride  is  laid  away.  He  thought: — When  I  see 
home  again,  at  least  it  will  be  really  empty,  even  if 
it  can  never  again  be  home. 

They  ride  to  her  grave  and  he  feels  how  wrong 
he  is.  The  lads  are  close  about  him  in  the  carriage, 
like  thoughts,  like  memories,  like  pain.  They 
throb  and  are  mute  and  are  ubiquitous  in  just  this 
way. — I  am  their  father.  That  meant  that  he 
must  master  them.  He  felt  his  failing  to.  Had 

<69> 


City  Block 

he  been  master,  they  would  not  have  been  so  cloy 
ing  close.  In  all  ways,  riding  together  to  the  grave, 
they  are  like  his  senses  that  cling  while  he,  know 
ing  them  bluntly,  can  neither  understand  nor  cast 
away.  They  were  the  true  remains  of  his  life,  the 
true  point  of  the  jest  that  is  his  life!  That  which 
rolls  silently  along  before  them  with  its  wreath  of 
immortelles  is  no  longer  anything  at  all.  There 
is  no  sense  in  burying  that.  It  is  dead,  that  death ! 
But  here  is  another  death,  the  death  that  his  two 
boys  clinging  close  to  him  are  forever  bringing 
back.  That  death  is  alive!  Why  can  not  they  be 
buried  ? 

But  they  could  not  be  buried.  They  would  go 
home  with  him.  They  would  remain  with  him. 
They  were  like  his  thoughts.  There  was  no  escape 
from  them.  Even,  he  would  have  to  nourish  them. 
That  which  he  deemed  the  climax  of  the  jest  was 
the  point  of  its  starting.  It  would  weave  into  the 
texture  of  his  love  for  the  living  the  horror  of  his 
love  for  the  lost.  It  would  continue  laughing 
slowly  through  his  life. 

The  thinking  of  these  things  was  a  drone  and  a 
rhythm :  one  with  the  swing  of  the  carriage  wheels, 
one  with  the  swing  of  his  breath.  Swathed  in  his 
thoughts,  Rudd  stands  above  the  broken  earth  and 
looks  into  the  grave.  Beyond  him  waves  the 
world.  A  fringe  of  trees  rolls  over  the  hill  that  is 
gold  and  purple  in  the  sun.  The  sky  glances 
against  it  and  its  infinite  steadfastness  makes  a 
wave  of  the  landside  and  a  mood  of  the  trees.  The 

<70> 


City  Block 

wind  runs  tremulous.  Rudd  sees  only  the  grave: 
but  the  wind  sings  in  his  ear  and  what  it  sings  is 
the  secret  of  all  it  has  traversed  to  reach  him.  On 
the  horizon  the  brow  of  the  hill  touches  a  cloud. 
And  the  cloud's  top  touches  the  sun.  And  the  wind 
has  come  from  the  horizon.  .  . 

So  a  great  need  in  Rudd.  He  could  escape  his 
thoughts !  He  knew  a  way.  These  living  growing 
forms  of  his  thoughts  clasping  his  hands?  He 
must  escape  them  first! 

Rudd  drew  free  his  hands  from  the  hands  of  his 
two  boys.  He  did  not  look  at  the  faces  of  his  boys. 
He  walked  away  from  their  faces.  .  . 


Three  days  Rudd  did  not  return.  He  wandered 
about.  He  drank  enough  to  blunt  the  edge  of 
insult  cutting  his  nerves.  He  kept  himself  at  that. 
He  had  a  mist  in  him  to  dim  his  thoughts.  But  he 
still  had  the  sense  of  their  stirring,  of  their  near 
ness,  of  the  danger  of  their  approach.  He  did  not 
dare  to  lose  this  altogether.  Something  held  him 
from  taking  liquor  to  that  end. 

His  living  through  these  days  was  a  siege  for 
him.  Within,  safe  for  the  moment,  was  a  self  that 
did  not  see,  did  not  hurt.  Without  was  the  bitter 
and  beating  and  intolerable  mass  of  his  emotion 
which  he  had  managed  to  thrust  off  .  .  but  there 
it  was  driving  forever  back  toward  its  home  within 
him.  As  the  stubborn  siege  wore  on,  he  knew.  He 


City  Block 

was  not  surprised,  walking  up  the  stair,  opening 
the  door  of  his  flat. 

Rudd  stood  still  and  pressed  his  mind  to  still 
ness.  The  flat  had  a  vast  and  vacant  air  to  his 
veering  senses.  It  was  not  empty.  About  the 
table,  Andy  and  Jack  sat  with  a  woman.  But  they 
were  petty,  out  of  scale.  They  did  not  figure  in 
the  empty  vast  flat.  The  table  was  bare  and  the 
stove  was  cold.  A  shadow  came  up  through  the 
window.  Another  shadow  lay  against  the  open 
threshold  to  the  bedroom  of  Mary.  Everything 
large,  older  than  its  wont.  Everything  swollen  as 
by  the  flush  of  a  dark  fever. 

The  woman  got  up.  She  was  a  sudden  challenge 
getting  up.  Large  also.  The  boys  small  and 
still. 

He  knew  her. — She  lives  upstairs  .  .  McDer- 
mott.  .  .  Or  was.  Married  or  something. 

She  was  a  tall  girl,  facing  him  tenderly  now. 

"So  you've  come  back,  Mr  Rudd?" 

Why  were  the  boys  so  quiet  and  so  small?  Were 
they  judging  him,  there?  Had  the  woman's  ten 
derness  come  down  to  make  them  judge  him? 

Her  tenderness  was  sharp. 

"A  fine  father  you  are!  You'd  'a'  let  them 
starve,  I  suppose?" 

He  knew,  if  he  saw  her  clear,  he  would  see  her 
tender  and  warm.  If  he  saw  the  lads  clear,  he 
would  see  them  tender  and  warm.  He  could  not 
bring  himself  to  see  them  clear.  Insult  and  broken 

<72> 


City  Block 

pride  stood  stiff  before  him.  And  through  them, 
what  he  saw  was  a  woman  scolding,  shaming  the 
father  of  his  boys  who  sat  there  meekly  still,  their 
eyes  away  and  their  bodies  away  from  their  father. 

"Well,  you've  come  back,"  she  spoke.  She  came 
close  to  him  blocking  the  door.  —  If  I  see  her,  I 
see  her  tender  and  warm.  .  She  is  loving.  She  is 
full  of  sympathy  for  me.  Always  I  have  felt  her 
glow  in  the  hall,  on  the  street,  as  she  passed. 

"Let  me  pass!" 

He  stirred.     She  was  gone. 

The  door's  shut  showered  out  and  went  through 
Rudd  like  steel.  It  sobered  him.  There  they 
were  .  .  Andy  and  Jack. — If  I  see  them  I  shall 
love  them.  They  are  warm. 

But  what  he  saw  was  this  proof  of  his  disgrace : 
their  mute  calm  branding  him  more  deep  than  the 
goodness  of  the  woman  who  had  fed  and  cared  for 
his  sons.  He  had  lost  his  love  in  life.  He  had 
won  this  living  insult?  .  .  .  This  he  saw. 

He  wanted  to  wipe  them  out  .  .  the  two  frail 
lads  who  were  shoots  of  all  his  love.  He  wanted 
to  fall  on  his  knees:  "Forgive  me!  forgive  me!"  .  . 
He  threw  up  his  head. 

"Come  lads,"  he  steadied  his  voice,  it  had  been 
long  silent.  "Come !  We're  going  out  to  supper." 

They  got  up.  They  put  on  their  hats  and  coats. 
They  said  nothing. 

As  they  walked  down  the  Block,  he  wanted  to 
touch  his  boys.  He  wanted  to  joke,  he  wanted  to 

<73> 


City  Block 

ask  them  questions.     They  entered  a  restaurant  in 
cold  stillness. 


On  one  side  of  the  narrow  place  was  a  counter 
fitted  with  stools  revolving  on  black  rods.  On  the 
other  side  was  a  squad  of  tables  bare  of  cloth,  clut 
tered  with  cannisters  and  dishes  and  the  sprawling 
elbows  of  eaters.  Above  the  counter  was  a  glass 
pasted  with  cardboard  notices  of  food  and  prices. 
An  unshaved  man  worked  in  a  dingy  apron.  An 
other,  greasier  still,  worked  the  tables.  The  place 
was  thick  with  men  and  women:  silence  swarmed 
over  their  drab  movements  like  a  slow  rotting. 

Rudd  and  his  sons  sat  down  at  an  empty  table. 
Rudd  took  the  bill-of-fare.  Here  was  a  topic  of 
talk  where  he  could  venture!  He  poured  of  him 
self,  of  all  his  broken  will  to  be  a  father,  into  the 
bill-of-fare.  From  the  food,  from  the  printed  card, 
he  sought  redemption. 

"Well,  lads?"  he  said.  "What  will  you  have  to 
eat?  Anything  you  want.  Now  make  sure." 

He  read  down  the  list.  He  stressed  the  good 
dishes  .  .  the  rich  ones.  He  put  a  tinge  of  rhap 
sody  gleaned  from  another  and  true  pathos  into 
his  voice  as  he  pronounced  them,  ".  .  sweetbreads 
on  toast,  veal  loaf,  chicken,  beefsteak  with  onions, 
chicken  salad,  duck  with  applesauce  .  ."  slurring 
the  common  meats  as  beneath  his  rite. 

The  boys  listened  with  unaltered  faces.  Rudd 
<74> 


City  Block 

was  lyric  with  the  deserts  .  .  "ice  cream,  chocolate 
layer-cake,  meringue."  .  .  He  paused. 

"I  want  fried  eggs,"  said  Andy. 

"Me  too,"  said  Jack. 

The  father  quavered  over  the  abyss  from  his 
proud  comedy.  He  feared  for  his  balance. 

"You're  not  hungrier  than  that?" 

"Missy  Jane  gave  us  lots  for  lunch." 

A  waiter  stood  dangling  above  them,  urging  with 
sinuous  body  for  an  order. 

"Very  well,"  said  Rudd.  "Fried  eggs.  Three 
times."  He  did  not  look  at  the  waiter.  The  wait 
er's  presence  was  full  in  him  and  was  hostile.  For 
the  waiter  had  stood  there  long,  and  he  had  heard 
Rudd's  prandial  oration  .  .  smirked  at  the  abyss. 
The  poison  of  that  smile  was  seeping,  seeping. 

"How  do  yez  want  the  potatoes?"  the  waiter 
asked.  His  head  was  up  also. 

"How?"  repeated  Rudd. 

"Boiled,"  came  the  answer. 

"Boiled  potatoes  on  the  side,"  ordered  Rudd. 
He  was  stiff.  The  other  man  lounged  off. 

There  was  silence. 

The  one  topic  of  talk  was  dead.  It  had  helped 
not  at  all. 

Rudd  waited,  tapping  the  floor  with  his  foot. 
He  stopped.  He  was  still  altogether.  His  sons 
gazed  ahead,  vacantly,  with  their  hands  clasped  and 
their  eyes  glistening.  Then  a  spell  came  and  held 
all  three  .  .  an  air  cloying  and  thick,  unbreath- 
able,  and  that  they  had  to  breathe !  An  air  of  per- 

<75> 


City  Block 

manence,  and  made  for  breathing.  In  its  drawn 
chill,  in  its  measured  penetration,  Rudd  recog 
nized  it. 

The  waiter  returned  and  laid  their  food  before 
them  on  the  table. 


FOUR 

FAITH 


IT'S  right  long  since  I  have  seen  you,  Patrol 
man  Pat." 

"Are  you  alone,  Luve?" 

"Yes." 

"I  want  to  talk  with  you." 

A  big  boyish  man  followed  the  woman  into  the 
forward  room. 

In  the  light,  he  said : 

"Time's  not  treated  you  very  decent,  has  it,  Mrs 
Luve?" 

She  smiled. 

"You  know  as  much  about  that  as  any,  Mr 
Broaddus." 

"Yes,"  he  answered.  "You  were  white,  Mrs 
Luve.  You  had  no  business — bein'  in  your  way 
of  business — bein'  white." 

He  was  standing,  hid  in  his  crude  civilian  clothes. 

"They  broke  you  good!" 

"What  can  I  do  for  you?"  she  said  abruptly. 

He  examined  her,  feeling  her  will  to  close  his 
reminiscence.  At  once  he  changed.  He  was  no 
more  the  roundsman  who  had  known  this  woman 
and  who  was  superior  to  her  in  all  that  law  and 
office  and  the  world  made  valid.  He  was  a  boy, 
with  blond  hair,  red  cheeks,  plump  hands,  lost  in 
a  discomfiture  of  feeling. 

<79> 


City  Block 

She  saw  this.     "Won't  you  sit  down?" 

His  hands  stopped  twitching.  She  was  aware 
of  his  mouth  firmly  closed,  as  he  pushed  up  to  the 
unavoidable  goal  of  his  appearance  before  her. 

"No  thank  you,  Mrs  Luve.  I  can  tell  you  in 
few  words  what  it  is  I  want." 

He  stopped.  She  sat  down.  He  saw  her  face, 
it  looked  as  if  the  spirit  of  his  club  .  .  of  all  the 
clubs  in  the  Force  .  .  had  beaten  it.  It  was  very 
small  and  humble:  also  it  was  sweet. 

"Mrs  Luve,"  he  began,  spreading  his  legs  a  bit, 
with  high  head  pressing  himself  to  words,  "Mrs 
Luve,  there's  one  thing  I've  got  of  my  experience 
with  you — and  that's  respect." 

She  frowned. 

"When  it  happened,  Mrs  Luve,  when  they  broke 
you  because  you  wouldn't  doublecross  old  Mangel 
.  .  I  knew  it  was  that  .  .  I  was  sick  about  it  all. 
I  wanted  to  leave  the  Force.  I  told  the  wife.  I 
was  sick  with  being  on  the  Force.  But  the  wife 
.  .  and  the  boys.  .  ." 

"I  understand,"  said  her  eyes. 

And  there  was  silence.  His  face  seemed  older, 
dryer.  His  face,  living  again  that  moment  of  de 
cision  when  he  had  remained  in  safety  and  his  true 
self  said  No,  grew  older,  dry :  something  was  dying 
from  it.  She  frowned,  seeing  his  older  face. 

Again  he  changed.  Years  seemed  to  flake  from 
him,  his  eyes  were  gentler.  There  came  into,  his 
eyes  what  made  her  wonder. 

<80> 


City  Block 

"I  want  help  from  you,  Mrs  Luve.  I  thought 
of  you  at  once.  I  am  a  married  man,  Mrs  Luve. 
I've  got  two  boys  .  .  and  there's  a  woman  .  .  I 
love!"  A  boy's  eyes  appealed  from  a  face  that 
now  was  downcast.  "God,  I  love  her!  I  got  to 
see  her!  We  got  to  see  each  other  somehow,  Mrs 
Luve!  We  got  to  .  .  we  got  to  find  out  what  this 
is.  .  .  Will  you  let  me  have  a  room  where  I  can 
see  her?" 

She  arose  and  went  to  the  window.  She  looked 
out.  She  said : 

"Certainly." 

He  was  scarce  boy,  more  child,  when  she  turned 
to  see  him. 

"There's  one  room  you  can  have.  I  don't  rent 
rooms,  you  know.  But  this  one  I  scarcely  ever 
use.  It's  the  only  one  where  I  won't  disturb  you, 
nor  you  me.  It's  back  of  the  kitchen.  At  the 
very  back  of  the  flat.  Rather  small.  Warm." 

"Thank  you,  Mrs  Luve." 

"I'll  charge  you  high  for  it.  .  .  Five  dollars  the 
week." 

He  nodded. 

"Can  you  afford  it?" 

He  shook  his  head.     She  smiled. 

"Five  dollars  .  .  in  advance." 

As  he  moved  to  the  door,  a  strain  of  will  went 
outward  to  his  hands  and  his  mouth  to  master  the 
boy,  to  re-establish  the  man.  His  hands  merely 
quavered,  his  mouth  gave  these  words: 


City  Block 

"You — you  know,  Mrs  Luve:  I'm  an  Officer. 
There's  the  home.  I'm  in  your  hands." 

She  opened  the  door.  "Get  along  with  you," 
she  said. 


The  girl  was  a  swift  tremble  under  his  arms  as 
they  went  forth  through  the  Block.  He  could  not 
tremble,  because  she  trembled. 

They  lifted  their  feet  very  high  .  .  carefully  in 
order  not  to  stumble. 

Walls  and  stairways  and  ceilings  were  black 
masses  sweeping  above  their  white  brows.  The  hall 
inclined  down,  tipping  them  resistless  to  a  small 
yellow  room:  the  gas  light  burned.  A  door 
clamped  them  in  on  each  other. 

She  saw  on  a  bureau  a  tumbler  holding  two  white 
roses.  Back  from  her  eyes  to  her  red  mind  where 
the  whole  world  lay  cluttered  away,  the  white  roses 
swept.  She  forgot  them,  she  felt  them  with  the 
rest. 

She  stood  against  the  enamelled  bar  of  the  bed, 
with  hands  holding  her  face. 

...  A  street  with  sordid  houses,  rancid  smell  in 
a  dim  doorway,  a  reeling  hall  with  doors  shut  .  . 
rose  in  her  mind,  parted  like  rods  the  eyelids  of 
her  seeing:  so  that  her  eyes  were  gates  now  to  a 
mind  pried  open  by  what  she  had  seen.  This  man 
— there  he  was,  who  had  brought  her  here! 

<82> 


City  Block 

.  .  .  She  sits  in  the  Park.  She  saw  herself  as 
she  sits  very  cool  in  the  Park.  Her  severe  straight 
blue  cape  falls  to  the  hem  of  her  dress:  closely  it 
clings  to  her  nervous  shoulders,  demurely  it  flares 
at  the  base.  She  saw  her  snugly  fitting  small  blue 
hat  .  .  brimless,  a  bonnet  .  .  the  crisp  white  or 
gandie  bow,  the  long  blue  streamers  behind. 

.  .  .  Sitting  very  cool  in  the  usual  Park  upon 
a  usual  day,  under  a  punctual  sun.  Merwin  and 
Faith  of  the  large  brown  eyes  play  near.  .  .  This 
man!  No,  just  policeman.  A  hard  dead  uniform, 
a  heavy  boot.  .  .  This  man! .  .  The  roll  of  the  green 
hill,  the  drifting  of  the  air,  the  press  of  trees,  the 
play  of  laughing  children  .  .  and  herself  crumpled, 
burning  in  the  nearness  of  this  man!  .  .  .  She 
walked  through  the  Park,  her  knees  were  heavy 
and  her  legs  were  reed.  She  walked  homeward 
driving  Merwin  and  Faith  who  could  not  un 
derstand.  "But  it's  not  time,  yet,  Miss  Desstyn. 
It's  not  near  time  for  getting  home!"  Next  day, 
her  legs  moved  back  upon  the  path.  She  was  car 
ried  back  to  a  bench  that  had  become  eternity  since 
a  night.  Once  again  a  dead  dull  uniform,  thick 
boots,  a  magic  from  them!  The  Park  rose  sudden 
about  her  like  a  bowl  so  that  she  fell  to  the  bot 
tom. — Man! 

In  the  little  room  where  the  white  roses  stand, 
she  stands  against  the  iron  bed  with  this  man!  His 
hand  on  her  trembling  shoulder. 

"Paula!  Look  at  me!  Won't  you  look  at  me, 
Paula?" 

<83> 


City  Block 

She  stood  stiff,  let  her  hands  fall  from  her  face. 
Yet  she  could  not  see  him.  It  was  he.  She  stood 
hard  against  the  bar  of  the  iron  bed  to  hold  her 
trembling. 

His  hands  took  her  hat.  His  arms  were  heavy 
about  her.  She  trembled  in  arms  infinitely  heavy, 
her  trembling  was  light.  She  was  cold. 

His  hands  became  two  instruments  at  work. 
TLike  a  machine.  And  as  they  worked  a  punctua 
tion  machine-like  marked  their  destructiveness :  she 
knew  .  .  his  lips  against  her  mouth.  His  hands, 
undressing  her,  took  from  her  brutally,  so  sweetly! 
a  gentleness  that  had  been  all  her  life  and  that  now 
choked  her  to  death. 

She  stood  with  blind  eyes  frozen  as  he  worked, 
his  breath  upon  her.  She  lay  folded  in  his  arms 
as  he  worked,  still  blind,  still  frozen.  She  stood 
again,  she  was  naked. 

"Paula!" 

She  opened  her  eyes  now,  saw  him. 

With  a  stillness  born  miraculously  old,  she  lay 
down  on  the  bed,  the  white  roses  in  her  eyes.  He 
was  away.  She  was  very  still  and  at  ease.  She 
lay  as  if  she  had  always  lain  thus,  naked. 

He  tried  to  understand  her  nakedness.  This 
nameless  splendor  he  has  created  before  him!  He 
could  not  understand,  he  could  not  see  it.  She  was 
slim  and  cool  and  white:  she  lay  relaxed  with  an 
arm  cushioning  her  gold  hair,  with  her  hard  breasts 
like  early  buds  upon  her ;  one  leg  bent  upward,  the 
white  of  the  knee  gleaming  blue,  the  little  foot  flat 

<84> 


City  Block 

like  a  kiss  upon  the  sheet.  But  it  .  .  her  naked 
ness  .  .  he  could  not  hold  in  his  eyes.  It  was  vast, 
it  was  a  Sea.  It  had  no  surfaces  like  her  and  no 
color.  It  sucked  him  down.  .  . 

He  came  up. 

She  was  a  woman  lying  in  his  arms  .  .  he  is  a 
man!  .  .  lying  in  his  arms  now  sobbing.  A 
woman  and  a  man  thrown  to  the  strand  of  the 
world.  Looking,  thinking.  They  lay  with  loose 
arms.  Thought  could  come  in  .  .  and  the  room. 

— Roses  placed  there  by  someone:  a  bureau,  a 
bed,  a  ceiling:  a  door  to  the  flat  of  someone!  .  .  a 
door  bringing  that  flat  to  my  nakedness,  a  ceiling 
on  my  nakedness !  a  strange  scratched  wooden  chair 
holding  what?  disordered  litter  .  .  — they  are  my 
clothes! 

She  bent  her  arm,  she  bent  her  arm  and  her  neck 
till  the  hurt  eased  her  from  the  sight;  she  pressed 
her  face  within  the  nook  of  her  elbow,  she  shook, 
she  sobbed  wildly. 

He  sat  up.  Against  the  salience  of  the  room 
was  a  cloud  for  him.  The  bed  and  the  room  of 
Mrs  Luve  and  the  littered  clothes — the  chair  and 
the  floor  were  blades  cutting  the  cloud.  He  saw 
his  home,  saw  Alice  his  wife,  his  uniform,  his  Duty  I 
He  saw  Paula. 

There  she  was:  he  had  just  held  her,  he  had  her. 
Yet  her  nakedness  brought  him  despair  as  if  he 
watched  her  so  within  another's  arms.  So  remote 
she  was,  so  hopelessly  remote:  so  helpless  his  love. 

<85> 


City  Block 

He  could  not  bear  this  nearness  of  his  love  and  her 
outside  as  if  embraced  by  another. 

He  cried:  "Paula!" 

In  the  silence  .  .  a  distant  noise,  only  a  stir:  the 
flat  and  its  cursed  life.  Behind  it  for  her,  the  cool 
home  where  she  worked,  the  gentle  children  that 
were  the  best  she  had,  the  distant  gentle  home 
across  the  sea  whence  she  came:  chaste,  all,  and 
nourishing  before  this  man  had  burned  it,  burned  it 
straw! 

They  groped  for  each  other,  lost  in  the  impulse 
of  self-preservation.  They  groped  like  two  weak 
creatures  in  a  storm  who  grope  for  a  shelter.  All 
now  in  the  mind  of  each  and  in  their  eyes  dragged 
them  away  from  each  other  .  .  their  homes,  their 
worlds,  their  creeds.  He  saw  her  nakedness 
poignantly  sweet  as  if  an  invisible  shield  shielded  it 
from  him.  He  struggled  to  win  back.  She  met 
his  struggle  with  open  tense  arms.  They  won  each 
other. 

The  storm  of  their  passion  cased  them  from  the 
storm  of  the  world  again,  till  at  last  they  stood 
up  dressed. 

Then  they  fled  from  each  other. 

3 

Patrick  Broaddus  rose  from  the  table  at  which 
he  ate  his  breakfast.  His  body  showed  flexible 
and  sensitive  within  the  thick  shirt.  His  wife 
Alice  was  ready  to  be  kissed:  he  kissed  her.  The 

<86> 


City  Block 

two  boys  came  running,  he  lifted  them  up,  said 
Good-bye.  There  above  his  dark  blue  coat  which 
she  held  up  for  him,  his  wife's  worn  face  smiling, 
her  red  hands  helping  him  on.  He  buttoned  his 
dark  blue  coat  .  .  he  was  massive  and  ponderous 
now:  he  noted  how  Alice  had  resewn  the  button 
that  was  loose :  he  went  to  report  for  duty. 

He  did  not  understand  .  .  there  was  the  sun  as 
usual  burning  the  top  window  of  the  bottle-works 
.  .  how  he  could  do  these  things  and  how  these 
things  could  be.  He  tried  to  look  at  Patrolman 
Patrick  Broaddus.  He  did  not  fail  to  find  him. 
He  was  amazed  at  not  failing. 

Twenty-nine  years  old  he  was  and  in  good  health. 
A  good  home,  a  good  job,  a  good  record  in  it.  Now 
a  truth,  dimly  athrob  with  the  sound  Paula,  run 
ning  athwart  the  morning,  athwart  his  work, 
scarring  the  face  of  his  wife,  branding  his  boys, 
shrivelling  up  his  home :  a  truth  which  as  he  touched 
upon  it  was  a  corpse.  So  pale,  so  pale  his  touching 
it.  More  dead  than  a  live  thing  dead :  it  was  dead, 
this  truth,  like  a  thing  that  had  never  been. 

He  worked  on  his  beat.  His  shoes  trod  firm 
pavement:  words  came  firm  from  his  mouth:  firm 
forms  of  men  and  women  and  of  wagons  channeled 
as  ever  under  his  firm  right  hand.  This  truth  was 
a  dead  thing  that  had  never  been  .  .  yet  a  lovely 
truth  named  Paula.  A  woman  crossed.  She 
lifted  her  skirt:  she  bent  slightly,  the  clinging  silk 
of  her  white  waist  creased  at  the  bulge  of  her  breast. 
A  dead  truth  that  had  never  been  .  .  he  wondered 

<87> 


City  Block 

.  .  stirred.  It  stirred  in  himself.  He  beat  away 
from  it :  it  drew  him.  He  denied  it :  it  stood  ready, 
should  he  deny  it,  to  consume  him.  The  world  was 
a  placid  plain  with  a  calm  stream  making  it  cool. 
Now  it  wrenched  up  into  heights,  it  plunged  down 
in  torrents.  If  he  denied,  he  was  crushed! 


Always  Paula  Desstyn  jumped  crisp  from  bed 
the  moment  she  awoke. 

She  was  brightest  and  crisp  in  the  morning.  She 
lay  very  still  in  bed  upon  her  back,  her  gold  hair 
tumbled  about  the  pillow,  her  hands  limp  and  warm 
upon  the  coverlet.  Her  eyes  opened,  she  jumped 
up,  she  shut  the  window.  She  took  in  the  day 
through  her  eyes  and  her  bare  throat.  She  went 
back  to  the  middle  of  the  room.  She  pulled  off 
her  gown,  she  looked  at  her  naked  body.  Her 
hand  ran  wistfully  upon  her  body  as  if  she  sought 
her  body.  Her  eyes  looked  away  as  if  her  hand 
had  not  found. 

She  bathed.  She  wove  her  hair  into  two  tight 
braids  .  .  very  tight  .  .  till  the  scalp  pulled  and 
hurt.  She  coiled  the  braids  like  ropes  upon  her 
head.  She  saw  her  face.  It  was  not  changed.  .  . 
Her  hair  was  tortured  but  her  face  was  the  same 
face!  She  had  blue  eyes.  She  had  still  her  fine 
straight  nose  above  the  wistful  lips.  .  .  She  un 
bound  her  hair  and  let  it  fall  to  her  shoulders. 
With  a  wide  comb  she  combed  it  to  a  twinkling 
wave.  Then  as  usual  she  made  it  parted  at  her 

<88> 


City  Block 

brow,  low  to  her  neck  so  that  its  golden  nimbus 
was  a  song  to  the  sharp  word  of  her  face.  She 
went  into  the  other  room.  The  sun  stood  upon  the 
sleeping  faces  of  Merwin  and  Faith.  She  stood 
there  silent.  The  faces  opened.  Children's  laugh 
ter  mingled  with  the  sun. 

Paula  went  through  the  usual  big  house:  spoke 
with  her  mistress,  ate,  cared  for  the  children.  Paula 
slept.  .  . 

She  felt  her  body  clean,  her  lips  were  not  crushed. 
She  felt  no  burden  upon  her  body.  She  asked  her 
self  no  question.  She  was  a  shell  washed  white  by 
a  Sea,  washed  empty.  Faint  was  the  murmur  in 
her.  High  was  her  rejoicing  that  she  was  empty, 
thinking  that  she  would  always  now  be  empty. 

Paula  was  English  and  poor.  She  had  pride. 
She  had  intelligence.  In  America  she  had  no 
friends.  She  did  not  like  having  to  care  for  the 
children  of  the  rich.  But  she  had  created  a  fine 
professional  pride  in  her  work:  she  was  conscien 
tious:  she  was  but  rarely  bitter.  She  held  with 
ease  the  respect  of  her  mistress,  the  love  of  Merwin 
and  Faith.  Within  these  reservations  of  her  sense 
of  the  injustice  of  her  place  in  the  world,  she  had 
joy  of  her  place  and  she  had  faith  in  her  world. 
For  Paula  loved  children.  Merwin  was  a  sturdy 
boy  honest  with  the  honesty  of  a  colt :  Faith  was  a 
child  bedewed  in  loveliness  like  a  new  flower  in  high 
wet  grasses.  She  loved  them.  She  knew  that 
they  meant  much  to  her  .  .  the  restrained  love 
they  gave  her.  And  now,  in  this  hushed  emptiness 

<89> 


City  Block 

within  her,  this  washed  white  emptiness  that  was 
she  thought  herself,  work  came  more  easily,  more 
gratefully  than  ever  it  had  come  to  Paula. 

The  children  were  lovelier  and  nearer.  Their 
need  and  their  separateness  were  nearer,  so  that 
she  went  to  them  more  clear.  She  was  warmer, 
more  loving,  taking  care  of  them.  Ways  to  in 
struct  and  please  and  help  them  came  profusely 
to  her  mind  like  inspirations.  Her  mind  was  run 
ning  without  let  toward  the  need  and  the  presence 
of  children.  Only  vaguely,  at  rare  times,  like  the 
hush  in  a  shell,  the  unbelievable  word : ' ' I  have  lain 
with  a  man!" 

Merwin  went  about  with  luminous  hard  eyes 
striking  and  prancing  the  world  like  a  colt's  hoofs. 
Faith  flung  little  eager  arms  about  her:  "O  Miss 
Desstyn,  how  I  love  you  .  .  I  love  you  .  .  I  love 
you  more  than  Mama!"  Her  mind  was  all  open 
to  them;  something  more  than  mind;  something 
open  where  tears  were.  Her  eyes  filled.  She 
clasped  the  little  girl.  She  pressed  the  girl's  lips 
playfully  together  with  her  fingers,  kissed  them. 

"Run/'  she  said.  "Tidy  the  table,  dear. 
Haven't  we  decided  we're  going  to  keep  our  room 
together?" 

.  .  .  For  days  so,  she  laughing  and  crisp  and 
brightly  murmurous  in  the  large  house  with  her 
two  children.  .  .  Came  the  day  she  had  not  looked 
for. — Here  it  is!  Today,  he  expects  me,  he  waits 
for  me  today! 

She  was  a  crumpled  creature  dragged  by  a  long 
<90> 


City  Block 

leash.  She  went:  she  had  to  go:  she  was  dragged 
hurtfully  upon  the  bottom  of  her  world  away  from 
her  world.  She  looked  up  once  again,  against  the 
eyes  of  this  man.  .  . 

Late  afternoon  and  sunless  in  the  room.  Out  of 
their  separate  lives,  they  stand  against  each  other. 
Rebellion  made  her  dry  and  unloving.  A  hot 
wind  was  this  man  and  she  stands  white  against 
him. 

She  was  tense,  he  was  limp.  They  stood  to 
gether  against  this  room  that  they  hated. 

"Paula,"  broke  from  him,  his  hands  waved  up. 
"We  cannot  help  it." 

"We  can!" 

There  was  space  between  them  and  their  flesh 
had  not  touched.  A  Terror  rose,  so  gradual  and 
so  vast  like  a  slow  dying  of  the  sun,  they  gave  no 
heed  to  it.  It  did  its  work  upon  them,  they  made 
response  like  atoms  blindly  moving. 

Paula  stood  with  her  flung  word  come  back  to 
her,  barbed  on  her.  She  had  a  will.  Now  she  let 
her  will  move  to  swing  all  of  her  away — away  from 
this  man  standing  beyond  her,  away  from  this  room 
with  its  glower  and  its  secret.  Her  will  worked. 
Then  the  Terror!  She  is  away  from  him.  She  is 
away  from  air  to  breathe.  She  is  away  from 
ground  to  stand.  She  is  pain,  gasping,  falling. 
He  is  away  from  her. 

He  had  no  will:  he  had  memories  and  habits. 
He  had  duty  and  home.  He  let  them  swing  him. 
So  the  Terror  on  him  too! 


City  Block 

Their  mouths  were  open  seeking  breath,  their 
arms  were  wide  seeking  hold.  Blinded  arms  catch 
arms,  a  stern  mouth  sucks  mouth.  They  held,  they 
breathed  each  other. 

She  moaned.  She  beat  her  head  against  his 
breast.  .  .  "Paula!  Paula!"  .  .  .  His  fingers  ran 
through  her  hair,  trampled  her  eyes,  her  mouth, 
clutched  her  throat.  But  they  needed  no  help. 
Ground  and  air,  this.  At  last  they  were  warm  and 
still,  deeply  breathing. 

Nakedness  binds  this  warmth  and  this  stillness. 
Nakedness  must  end. 

Within  their  clothes,  together,  they  were  clad 
once  more  in  agony.  Clothes  caught  them  back 
into  the  separate  worlds  where  they  had  ever  dwelt, 
where  they  had  ever  to  return.  Since  nakedness 
must  end. 


Mrs  Luve  left  the  door  ajar  and  waited. 

At  last  the  front  door  opened.  Light  scared 
steps  down  the  hall.  Mrs  Luve  stood  at  the  door. 

4 'Won't  you  come  in  a  moment  ?  Please !  I  want 
to  talk  to  you." 

She  saw  a  young  woman  stark  with  outrage  be 
fore  her.  A  young  woman  very  sweet,  with  her 
outraged  blue  eyes  and  her  fists. 

"You  think  I  had  no  right  to  speak  to  you  ?  You 
think  I  had  no  right  to  look  at  your  face.  No- 
stop.  I  have  spoken  to  you  now,  I  have  seen  your 

<92> 


City  Block 

face.  That  damage  is  done.  I  think  I  had  a  good 
reason.  Wouldn't  it  be  foolish,  now  the  price  is 
paid,  not  to  get  the  reason?" 

Paula's  fists  opened  and  shut.  She  bent  her 
head  stiffly.  She  came  in. 

Mrs  Luve  shut  the  door.  She  did  not  ask  her 
to  sit.  They  were  both  standing. 

"Have  you  ever  seen  a  woman  like  me  before?" 
She  had  not  meant  to  say  this.  "Look  at  me." 

"What  do  you  want?"' 

The  older  woman  knew  that  this  within  her  was 
real.  She  had  not  gauged  it.  She  did  not  worry 
or  press.  She  knew  it  would  come  out. 

"You  and  Broaddus  love  each  other,"  she  began. 
"I  want  you  to  look  at  me.  I  want  you  to  under 
stand,  do  you  see?  ,  .  that  I — I  more  than  most 
folks — have  the  right  to  speak  to  you,  girl." 

There  was  a  pause.  The  girl  sought  for  her  con 
tempt  and  her  repulsion  to  wrap  about  her.  She 
did  not  find  them. 

"I  know  what  love  is,  because  I  know  what  hor, 
xor  comes,  when  love  is  starved  or  denied.  I — I 
am  a  woman  who  has  lived  in  dirt.  Do  you  un 
derstand?  I  know  about  that.  I  know  that  dirt 
is  always  just  that  denying  of  love.  Why  do  you 
*  .  you  two  do  what  you  are  doing?" 

Paula  turned  and  looked  at  the  door. 

"You  love  each  other,  I  know.  I  knew  that 
from  Patrick  Broaddus'  eyes  when  he  first  came 
here.  I  know  it  now  better  than  ever,  seeing  you. 
For  God's  sake,  girl!  why  can't  you  be  decent?" 

<93> 


City  Block 

Paula  was  torn.  —What  is  this  woman  .  .  of 
all  women,  she  .  .  saying  to  me?  Shaming  her! 

"What  right " 

"No  right,  girl.  I  just — I  just  can't  help  it. 
I  know  what  you're  going  to  say.  He's  married. 
He's  on  the  Force.  What  of  it?  Don't— don't 
try  to  make  love  live  in  a  nasty  hidden  hallroom  .  , 
it  won't.  It  will  suffocate.  It  will  begin  to  stink." 

Paula  opened  the  door.  Firm  steps  now  in  the 
hall.  They  were  somehow  in  the  room,  all  three 
now,  together. 

The  man's  breath  rose  in  storm.     He  was  white. 

"What  does  this  mean,  Luve?" 

"I  am  giving  notice  you  can't  have  the  room, 
after  this  week." 

"To  whom  are  you  giving  notice?  What  right 
did  you  have ?J> 

The  woman  came  to  the  man's  side  and  with  two 
suppliant  hands  clasped  his.  , 

"For  God's  sake,  Pat,"  she  said,  "I'm  fond  of 
you.  I  have  been  suffering  about  this.  You  listen 
to  me.  To  her,  I'm  nothing  but  a  whore.  But  I 
see  things,  I  feel  things.  You  said  you  trusted 
me,  big  Boy  that  you  are.  I  have  been  laying 
awake  nights,  thinking  and  suffering  about  you 
two.  I  have  been  living  so  near  to  the  pain  and 
beauty,  and  the  wrong  of  this.  I  couldn't  help  it, 
Pat,  I  had  to  speak.  Why — I  never  laid  eyes  on 
this  child  here,  and  yet  I  knew  what  she  looked 
like.  When  I  saw  her  for  the  first  time  today,  I 
recognized  her — I  did.  I  would  have,  anywhere. 

<94> 


City  Block 

For  God's  sake,  take  her.  Take  her  decent.  She's 
lovely,  man.  How  dare  you  hide  her  in  a  hole-and- 
corner?  Take  her  out  to  the  sun,  where  the  two 
of  you  belong!" 

Mrs  Luve  stopped.  She  was  very  pale  and 
humble.  She  looked  at  her  own  hands,  she  clasped 
them.  Pride  and  coolness  came  back.  She  flung 
wide  her  hands: 

"At  any  rate,  the  last  week's  up  tomorrow  .  . 
the  room,  you  can't  have  it  again." 

She  did  not  look  at  them  more.  She  seemed 
angry  though  herself  knew  not  why.  She  looked 
straight  before  her  with  her  head  slightly  to  one 
side. 

Then  she  looked  back,  there  was  wild  fear  in  her 
eyes. 

"Excuse  me,  girl,  for  having  spoken  to  you. 
You  needn't  worry.  I  am  no  teller  of  secrets.  I 
shall  never  recognize  you,  if  we  should  pass  in  the 
street." 


They  were  in  their  room,  with  silence. 

They  looked  at  each  other:  they  were  able, 
strangely,  to  look  at  one  another,  clothed  still  each 
in  their  world. 

Filaments  came  out  from  themselves,  frail, 
diaphanous,  parabolic  .  .  upon  each  other's  vision. 
He  saw  her  sweet  and  tender.  He  let  himself  float 
with  this  filament  of  longing  to  where  she  was  now, 
where  he  saw  her,  gently  his  own  beside  him.  He 

<95> 


City  Block 

saw  life  with  her,  her  in  his  life :  they  close  together 
and  quiet  moulding  life,  making  life's  form  of 
themselves.  It  seemed  easeful,  it  seemed  needful. 
It  seemed  sure  like  a  day  dawning. 

She  with  bright  eyes  felt  his  new  eyes  upon  her : 
within  her  breast  that  had  been  hard  and  cold  a 
warm  stream  opened.  Her  fingers  tingled.  She 
needed  to  lean  back,  she  was  full  of  sleep.  She 
did  not  see  him  now,  but  each  pore  of  her  body  took 
him  in,  he  was  formed  within  her.  She  saw  him 
so,  as  he  was:  a  tender  hopeful  boy,  so  clumsily 
lost  within  a  world  of  Duty,  within  a  world  of 
fatherhood  and  manhood.  He  needed  a  world  of 
his  own  .  .  her  own  .  .  a  world  she  alone  could 
make  for  him.  And  the  sedateness  of  his  home,  the 
sedateness  of  his  work  were  teeth  cutting  his  boy 
ish  flesh. 

They  came  closer.  For  the  first  time,  she  placed 
her  hand  in  his  and  he  held  it  gently.  For  the  first 
time  they  smiled  at  each  other  in  peace.  They  sat 
together  on  the  bed,  and  he  held  her  hand  like  a 
boy.  She  let  her  cheek  come  to  his:  her  cheek 
touched  his,  her  hair  twinkled  against  his  ear  and 
against  his  eyes.  So  they  sat,  looking  beyond 
themselves,  faintly  asway  in  themselves  .  .  ten 
derly,  spent  .  .  like  two  children  at  nightfall. 

At  last  they  got  up.  He  saw  the  hand  he  was 
holding.  He  kissed  it.  He  had  never  kissed  her 
hand.-  She  pulled  him  down  to  her  and  kissed  his 
hair.  They  got  up  as  out  of  a  Sleep  so  magical 

<96> 


City  Block 

and  great  that  it  spread  now  still  above  their  wak 
ing  heads,  under  their  walking  feet. 

They  got  up,  and  they  walked  with  waking  eyes 
away,  into  their  separate  worlds. 

They  did  not  meet  again. 


FIFE 

UNDEB  THE  DOME:    ALEPH 


Y  I  ^HEY  were  two  figures  under  the  grey  of 
the  dome  .  .  two  straight  faint  figures  of 
black:  they  were  a  man  and  woman  with 

heads  bowed,  straight  .  .  under  the  surge  of  the 

Dome. 


Friday  night  when  always  he  broke  away  in 
order  to  pray  in  the  Schul,  and  when  she  sat  in  the 
shop  and  had  to  speak  with  the  customers  who 
came,  these  praying  hours  of  Friday  night. 
Shabbas  morning  at  least  he  did  not  go  also.  — My 
heart  tells  me  it  is  wrong.  Lord,  forgive  me  for 
Esther  and  for  my  little  girl.  Lord,  you  know  it 
is  for  them  I  do  not  go  to  Schul  on  Shabbas  morn 
ing.  .  .  But  by  God,  you  will  keep  the  store  those 
two  hours  Friday?  Do  you  hear?  By  God,  what 
else  have  I  ever  asked  you  for?  Don't  you  sit 
around  and  do  nothing  all  the  day,  and  aren't 
Flora's  clothes  a  filth:  and  hardly  if  you'll  cook 
our  meals.  But  this  you  will  do :  this  you  will  do ! 
Friday  night.  Lord,  why  is  there  no  light  in 
Esther?  What  have  I  done,  Lord?  what  have  I 
not  done? 

She  sat  in  a  chair,  always,  near  the  side  wall :  her 
eyes  lay  burning  against  the  cold  glare  of  the  gas. 


City  Block 

Above  her  shoulder  on  the  wall,  was  a  large  sheet 
of  fashions.  Women  with  wasp  waists,  smirking, 
rolling:  stiff  men,  all  clothes,  with  little  heads. 
Under  the  table,  where  Meyer  sits  with  his  big 
feet  so  much  to  look  at,  Flora  played,  a  soiled 
bundle,  with  a  ball  of  yarn  and  a  huge  gleaming 
scissors. — No  one  perhaps  comes,  and  then  I  do 
not  mind  sitting  and  keeping  the  store.  I  saw  a 
dead  horse  in  the  street.  —A  dead  horse,  two  days 
dead,  rotting  and  stiff.  Against  the  grey  of  the 
living  street,  a  livid  dead  horse.  A  hot  stink 
was  his  cold  death  against  the  street's  cleanness. 
There  are  two  little  boys,  wrapped  in  blue  coat, 
blue  muffler,  leather  cap.  They  stand  above  the 
gaunt  head  of  the  horse  and  sneer  at  him.  His 
flank  rises  red  and  huge.  His  legs  are  four  strokes 
away  from  life.  He  is  dead.  .  .  The  naughty  boys 
pick  up  bricks.  They  stand,  very  close,  above 
the  head  of  the  horse.  They  hurl  down  a.  brick. 
It  strikes  the  horse's  skull,  falls  sharp  away.  They 
hurl  down  a  brick.  It  cuts  the  swollen  nostril, 
falls  soft  away.  The  horse  does  not  mind,  the 
horse  does  not  hurt.  He  is  dead. 

—Go  away,  you  two !    Throwing  stones  at  a  dead 

horse !    Go  away,  I  say !    How  would  you  like . 

When  one  is  dead,  stones  strike  one's  skull  and  fall 
sharp  away,  one  is  moveless.  When  one  is  dead, 
stones  strike  the  soft  of  one's  throat  and  fall  soft 
away,  one  is  hurtless.  When  one  is  dead  one  does 
not  hurt. 

<102> 


City  Block 

She  sat  and  turned  her  eyes  away  from  her  child. 
Flora  had  smear  on  her  face:  her  hands  were 
grimed  with  the  floor.  One  of  her  stockings  was 
down:  her  little  white  knee  was  going  to  scrape  on 
the  floor,  be  black  before  it  was  bloody.  So.  .  . 
A  long  shining  table  under  a  cold  gas  spurt.  A 
store  with  clothes  and  a  stove,  and  no  place  for  her 
self.  A  row  of  suits,  all  pressed  and  stiff  with 
Meyer's  diligence.  A  pile  of  suits,  writhed  with 
the  wear  of  men,  soiled,  crumpled  with  traffic  of 
streets,  with  bending  of  body  in  toil,  in  eating,  in 
loving  perhaps.  Grimed  living  suits.  Meyer 
takes  an  iron  and  it  steams  and  it  presses  hard,  it 
sucks  up  the  grime.  It  sucks  out  the  life  from  the 
suit.  The  suit  is  stiff  and  dead,  now,  ready  to  go 
once  more  over  the  body  of  a  man  and  suck  to 
itself  his  life. 

The  automatic  bell  clangs.  There  in  the  open 
door  was  a  dark  tall  woman : — customer. 

Esther  stood  too.  She  felt  she  was  shorter  and 
less  tidy: — more  beautiful  though. 

Two  women  across  the  tailor-shop,  seeing  each 
other. 

"I  came  for  my  husband's — for  Mr  Breddan's 
dress-suit.  Mr  Lanich  told  him  it  would  be  ready 
at  seven?" 

Esther  Lanich  moved,  Sophie  Breddan  stood. 
Between  slow  dark  curve,  swift  dark  stroke  of  these 
two  women,  under  a  tailor's  table  the  burn  of  a 
dirty  child,  mumbling  intent  with  scissors  between 
her  soiled  frail  legs,  at  play  with  loose  hair. 
<103> 


City  Block 

"Is  this  the  one?" 

The  curve  and  the  stroke  came  near  across  the 
table. 

"Yes." 

Eyes  met. — She  is  tidy  and  fresh  and  less  beau 
tiful,  though,  than  I.  She  has  no  child.  She  has 
a  flat  with  Sun  and  a  swell  husband  who  wears  a 
swallow-tail  and  takes  her  out  to  parties.  She  has 
a  diamond  ring,  her  corsets  are  sweet.  She  has 
things  to  put  into  her  time  like  candies  into  her 
mouth,  like  loved  kisses  into  my  mouth.  She  is  all 
new  with  her  smooth  skin  going  below  the  collar 
of  her  suit. 

— She  has  a  child,  and  she  lets  her  play  dirty 
with  scissors  under  a  tailor  table.  "How  much  is 
it?"  .  .  After  a  decent  bedtime. 

— Does  she  think  I  care  about  this?  "Oh,  no 
hurry.  Better  come  in  and  pay  my — Mr  Lanich. 
Any  time." 

The  clang  of  the  bell. 

Esther  is  seated.  Her  gray  almond-tilted  eyes 
seem  sudden  to  stand  out  upon  the  farther  wall 
of  her  husband's  shop,  and  to  look  upon  her.  Her 
eyes  speak  soft  warm  words  that  touch  her  hair, 
touch  her  lips,  lie  like  caressing  fingers  upon  the 
soft  cloth  that  lies  upon  her  breast. 

— Less  beautiful  than  I,  though.  My  flesh  is 
soft  and  sweet,  it  is  the  color  of  cream.  What  for? 
My  hair  is  like  an  autumn  tree  gleaming  with  sun. 
I  can  let  it  fall  through  the  high  channel  of  my 
breast  against  my  stomach  that  does  not  bulge  but 

<104> 


City  Block 

lies  soft  and  low  like  a  cushion  of  silk.  What  for? 
My  eyes  see  beauty.  What  for?  O  there  is  no 
God.  If  there  is  a  God,  what  for?  He  will  come 
back  and  work.  He  will  eat  and  work.  He  is 
kind  and  good.  What  for?  When  he  is  excited 
with  love,  doesn't  he  make  an  ugly  noise  with  his 
nose?  What  else  does  he  make  with  his  love?  .  .  . 
Another  like  Flora?  God  forbid.  What  for? 

She  did  not  pull  down  the  wide  yellow  shade, 
though  it  was  night.  The  street  was  a  ribbon  of 
velvet  blackness  laid  beside  the  hurting  and  sharp 
brightness  of  the  store.  The  yellow  light  was  hard 
like  grains  of  sand  under  the  quick  of  her  nails. 
She  was  afraid  of  the  street.  She  was  hurt  in  the 
store.  But  the  brightness  clamped  her.  She  did 
not  move.  — O  let  no  more  customers  come! 
"Keep  quiet,  Flora."  I  cannot  move.  She  was 
clamped. 

But  the  store  moved,  moved. 

There  was  a  black  Wheel  with  a  gleaming  axle 
— the  Sun — that  sent  light  dimming  down  its 
spokes  as  it  spun.  From  the  rim  of  the  Wheel 
where  it  was  black,  bright  dust  flung  away  as  it 
spun.  The  store  was  a  speck  of  bright  dust.  It 
flung  straight.  It  moved  along  the  velvet  path  of 
the  street,  touching,  not  merging  with  its  night.  It 
moved,  it  moved,  she  sat  still  in  its  moving.  The 
store  caught  up  with  Meyer.  He  entered  the  store. 
He  was  there.  He  was  there,  scooped  up  from  the 
path  of  the  street  by  the  store.  Now  her  work 
was  over.  He  was  there.  The  store  was  a  still 

<105> 


City  Block 

store,  fixed  in  a  dirty  house.  Its  brightness  the 
spurt  of  two  jets  of  gas.  He  was  back  from 
SchuL— That  is  all. 

A  man  with  blond  hair,  flat  feet  that  shuffled, 
small  tender  hands.  A  man  with  a  mouth  gentle 
and  slow,  with  eyes  timid  to  see:  "Come  dear:  that 
is  no  place."  — Why  she  lets  the  child  play  with 
my  shears! 

Tender  hands  pull  Flora  from  beneath  the  table. 
Flora  comes  blinking,  unprotesting.  Where  her 
father's  hands  leave  off  from  her,  she  stays.  She 
sinks  back  to  the  floor.  She  looks  at  her  little  fists 
from  which  the  scissors  are  gone.  She  misses  hard 
gleaming  steel.  She  opens  and  shuts  her  fists  and 
looks  at  them:  she  cries.  But  she  does  not  move. 
.  .  Her  mother  does  not  move.  .  .  Her  father 
does  not  move.  He  squats  on  the  table.  His  head 
sways  with  his  thoughts.  He  knows  that  Flora 
will  stop  crying  .  .  what  can  he  do?  ..  in  per 
haps  half  an  hour.  It  is  a  weak  cry.  Grows 
weaker.  He  is  used  to  it.  There  is  work. 

He  sews.  "A  woman  of  valor  who  can  find? 
For  her  price  is  far  above  rubies."  —She  will 
stay  here,  stay  here  silent.  Flora  should  be  in 
bed.  Who  to  put  his  child  in  bed?  Hard  gas 
light  on  her  beloved  hair?  A  wither,  a  wilt.  .  . 
"She  is  like  the  merchant  ships;  she  bringeth  her 
food  from  afar."  .  .  He  sews  and  rips.  —What 
Lord  have  I  left  undone?  I  love  my  Esther.  .  . 
He  sews.  — I  love  my  little  girl.  Lord,  I  fear 
the  Lord.  .  .  "She  looketh  well  to  the  ways  of  the 
<106> 


City  Block 

household,  and  eateth  not  the  bread  of  idleness." 
— Lighten  me  Lord,  give  me  light.  There  is  my 
daughter  crying,  who  should  sleep:  and  my  wife 
sitting,  who  will  not,  who  will  never  without  me 
go  home.  She  is  afraid.  She  says  she  is  afraid. 
She  is  sullen  and  silent.  She  is  so  fair  and  sweet 
against  my  heart.  Lord!  why  did  her  hands  that 
held  my  head  speak  a  lie?  and  her  silent  lips  that 
she  let  press  upon  my  mouth,  why  were  they  lies? 
Lord,  I  cannot  understand.  Lord,  I  pray.  I 
must  sew  bread  for  Esther  and  for  my  child.  I 
go  to  Schul  at  least  once  each  Shabbas,  Lord.  .  . 
Do  I  not  fill  the  deep  ten  Penitential  Days  from 
Eosh  Ha  Shonoh  to  Yom  Ha  Kippurim  with  seek 
ing  out  of  heart?  .  .  .  He  sews,  he  rips.  The 
weeping  of  his  child  is  done.  Long  stitches,  here. 
She  has  found  a  chair's  leg  to  play  with.  Her 
moist  fingers  clasp  at  the  shrill  wood.  The  wooden 
chair  and  her  soft  flesh  wrestle.  Esther  sits  still. 
He  sews. 

"Her  children  rise  up  and  call  her  blessed. 

Her  husband  also,  and  he  praiseth  her: 

—Many  daughters  have  done  valiantly, 

But  thou  excellest  them  all.— 

Grace  is  deceitful  and  beauty  is  vain ; 

But  a  woman  that  feareth  the  Lord,  she  shall  be 

praised. 

Give  her  of  the  fruit  of  her  hands; 
And  let  her  works  praise  her  in  the  gates." 

<107> 


City  Block 


In  the  door  and  the  clang  again  of  the  bell,  a 
boy  with  them.  A  boy  they  knew — son  of  their 
neighbors — big  for  his  years  and  heavy,  with  fat 
lips,  eyes  clouded,  hair  black  and  low  over  his 
clouded  eyes.  Esther  alone  saw,  as  he  lurched  in, 
one  foot  dragging  always  slightly. 

He  went  for  little  Flora  with  no  greeting  for 
them :  familiarly  as  he  knew  he  would  find  her,  had 
come  so,  often.  — He  loves  her,  the  man  who  squats 
on  the  table  and  sews  smiles  on  the  boy  who  loves 
and  plays  with  his  child. 

"Hello,  kid,"  voice  of  a  thick  throat,  "look— 
what  I  got  for  you  here." 

Flora  lets  the  chair  of  her  late  love  lurch  against 
her  back,  strike  her  forward.  She  does  not  care. 
She  watches  two  hands — grey-caked  over  red — un 
wrap  from  paper  a  dazzle  of  colors,  place  it  to  her 
eyes  on  the  floor,  pull  with  a  string:  it  has  little 
wheels,  it  moves! 

"Quackle-duck,"  he  announces. 

Flora  spreads  out  her  hands,  sinks  on  her  rump, 
feels  its  green  head  that  bobs  with  purple  bill,  feels 
its  yellow  tail. 

"Quackle-duck — yours,"  says  the  boy. 

She  takes  the  string  from  his  hand.  With  shoul 
der  and  stomach  she  swings  her  arm  backward  and 
pulls.  The  duck  spurts,  bobbing  its  green  long 
head  against  her  leg. 

She  plays.  The  boy  on  his  knees  with  soiled 
<108> 


City  Block 

thick  drawers  showing  between  his  stockings  and 
his  pants  plays  with  her.  .  . 

Meyer  Lanich  did  not  cease  from  work,  nor  his 
woman  from  silence.  His  face  was  warm  in  pleas 
ure,  watching  his  child  who  had  a  toy  and  a  play 
mate.  — I  am  all  warm  and  full  of  love  for  Her 
bert  Rabinowich:  perhaps  some  day  I  can  show 
him,  or  do  something  for  his  father?  Now  there 
was  no  way  but  to  go  on  working  and  smile  so  the 
pins  in  his  mouth  did  not  prick. 

The  eyes  of  Esther  drew  a  line  from  these  two 
children  back  to  the  birth  of  the  one  that  is  hers. 
She  dwelt  in  a  world  about  the  bright  small  room 
like  the  night:  in  a  world  that  roared  and  wailed, 
that  reeled  with  despair  of  her  hope. 

She  had  borne  this  dirty  child  all  clean  beneath 
her  heart.  Her  belly  was  sweet  and  white,  it  had 
borne  her:  her  breasts  were  high  and  proud,  they 
had  emptied,  they  had  come  to  sag  for  this  dirty 
child  on  the  floor :  face  and  red  lips  on  a  floor  that 
any  shoes  might  step. 

Had  she  not  borne  a  Glory  through  the  world, 
bearing  this  stir  of  perfect  flesh?  Had  she  not 
borne  a  Song  through  the  harsh  City?  Had  she 
not  borne  another  mite  of  pain,  another  fleck  of 
dirt  upon  the  City's  shame-heaps? 

She  lies  in  her  bed  burned  in  sweet  pain.  Pain 
wrings  her  body,  wrings  her  soul  like  the  word  of 
the  Lord  within  lips  of  Deborah.  Her  bed  with 
white  sheets,  her  bed  with  its  pool  of  blood  is  an 
altar  where  she  lays  forth  her  Glory  which  she  has 
<109> 


City  Block 

walking  carried  like  Song  through  the  harsh  city. 
— What  have  I  mothered  but  dirt?  .  .  . 

A  transfigured  world  she  knows  she  will  soon 
see.  Yes :  it  is  a  flat  of  little  light — and  the  bugs 
seep  in  from  the  other  flats  no  matter  how  one 
cleans — it  is  a  man  of  small  grace,  it  is  a  life  of 
few  windows.  But  her  child  will  be  borne  to 
smite  life  open  wide.  Her  child  shall  leap  above 
its  father  and  its  mother  as  the  sun  above  forlorn 
fields.  .  .  She  arose  from  her  bed.  She  held  her 
child  in  her  arms.  She  walked  through  the  reeling 
Block  with  feet  aflame.  She  entered  the  shop.  .  . 
There — squatting  with  feet  so  wide  to  see — her 
man :  his  needle  pressed  by  the  selfsame  finger.  The 
world  was  not  changed  for  her  child.  Behold  her 
child  changing — let  her  sit  forever  upon  her  seat 
of  tears — let  her  lay  like  fire  to  her  breast  this  end 
less  vision  of  her  child  changing  unto  the  world.  .  . 

— I  have  no  voice,  I  have  no  eyes.     I  am  a 

woman  who  has  lain  with  the  world. 
The  world's  voice  upon  my  lips  gave  my 

mouth  gladness. 
The  world's  arm  about  my  flanks  gave  my 

flesh  glory. 

I  was  big  with  gladness  and  glory. 
Joyful  I  lost  in  love  of  my  vision  my  eyes, 

in  love  of  my  song  my  voice. 
I    have    borne    another    misery    into    the 

world.  .  . 


City  Block 

Meyer  Lanich  moves,  putting  away  the  trowsers 
he  has  patched.  — O  Lord,  why  must  I  sew  so 
many  hours  in  order  to  reap  my  pain?  Why  must 
I  work  so  long,  heap  the  hard  wither  of  so  many 
hours  upon  my  child  who  cannot  sleep  till  I  do,  in 
order  that  all  of  us  may  be  unhappy? 

The  clang  and  the  door  open.  The  mother  of 
the  boy. 

"Oh,  here  you  are!  Excuse  me,  friends.  I  was 
worrying  over  Herbert.  .  .  Well,  how  goes  it?" 

She  smiled  and  stepped  into  the  room :  saw  them 
all. 

"All  well,  Mrs  Rabinowich,"  said  Meyer.  "We 
are  so  glad  when  your  Herbert  comes  to  play  with 
Florehen." 

Mrs  Rabinowich  turns  the  love  of  her  face  upon 
the  children  who  do  not  attend  her.  A  grey  long 
face,  bitterly  pock-marked,  in  a  glow  of  love. 

"Look  what  your  Herbert  brought  her,"  Meyer 
sews  and  smiles.  "A  toy.  He  shouldn't,  now. 
Such  a  thing  costs  money." 

Mrs  Rabinowich  puts  an  anxious  finger  to  her 
lips. 

"Don't,"  she  whispers.  "If  he  wants  to,  he 
should.  It  is  lovely  that  he  wants  to.  There's 
money  enough  for  such  lovely  wants.  .  .  Well, 
Darling.  Won't  you  come  home  to  bed?" 

Herbert  does  not  attend. 

His  mother  sighed :  a  sigh  of  great  appeasement 


City  Block 

and  of  content.  — This  is  my  son!  She  turned  to 
where  Esther  sat  with  brooding  eyes.  Her  face 
was  serious  now,  grey  ever,  warm  with  a  grey  sor 
row.  Her  lips  moved :  they  knew  not  what  to  say. 

"How  are  you,  Esther?" 

"Oh,  I  am  well,  Mrs  Rabinowich.  Thank  you." 
A  voice  resonant  and  deep,  a  voice  mellowed  by 
long  keeping  in  the  breast  of  a  woman. 

"Why  don't  you  come  round,  sometime,  Esther? 
You  know,  I  should  always  be  so  glad  to  see  you." 

"Thank  you,  Mrs  Rabinowich." 

"You  know  .  .  we're  just  next  door,"  the  older 
woman  smiled.  "You  got  time,  I  think.  More 
time,  than  I." 

"Oh,  she  got  time  all  right!"  The  sharp  words 
flash  from  the  soft  mouth  of  Meyer,  who  sews  and 
seems  in  no  way  one  with  the  sharp  words  of  his 
mouth.  Esther  does  not  look.  She  takes  the  words 
as  if  like  stones  they  had  fallen  in  her  lap.  She 
smiles  away.  She  is  still.  And  Lotte  Rabinowich 
is  still,  looking  at  her  with  a  deep  wonder,  shaking 
her  head,  unappeased  in  her  search  . 

She  turns  at  last  to  her  boy :  relieved. 

"Come  Herbert,  now.    Now  we  really  got  to  go." 

She  takes  his  hand  that  he  lets  limply  rise.  She 
pulls  him  gently. 

"Goodnight,  dear  ones.  .  .  Do  come,  sometimes, 
Esther— yes?" 

"Thank  you,  Mrs  Rabinowich." 

Meyer  says:  "Let  the  boy  come  when  he  wants. 
We  love  to  have  him." 


'City  Block 

His  mother  smiles.  — Of  course:  who  would  not 
love  to  have  him  ?  Good  heart,  fine  boy.  "It's  long 
past  bedtime.  Naughty!"  She  kisses  him. 

Herbert,  a  little  like  a  horse,  swings  away  his 
heavy  head. 

They  are  gone  in  the  bell's  jangle. 

"What  a  good  boy:  what  a  big-hearted  boy," 
Meyer  said  aloud.  "I  like  that  boy.  He  will  be 
strong  and  a  success.  You  see." 

Her  words  "I  saw  him  lift  the  skirt  of  Flora  and 
peep  up"  she  could  not  utter.  She  was  silent,  see 
ing  the  dull  boy  with  the  dirty  mind,  and  his  mother 
and  Meyer  through  love  thinking  him  good.  What 
she  saw  in  her  silence  hurt  her. 

Her  hurt  flowed  out  in  fear.  She  saw  her  child : 
a  great  fear  came  on  Esther.  — Flora  is  small  and 
white,  the  world  is  full  of  men  with  thick  lips,  hairy 
hands,  of  men  who  will  lift  her  skirt  and  kiss  her, 
of  men  who  will  press  their  hairiness  against  her 
whiteness. 

— There  is  a  Magic,  Love,  whereby  this  shame  is 
sweet.  Where  is  it?  A  world  of  men  with  hair 
and  lips  against  her  whiteness.  Where  is  the  magic 
against  them?  Esther  was  very  afraid.  She  hated 
her  daughter. 

3 

Meyer  Lanich  came  down  from  his  table  and 
drew  down  the  wide  yellow  shade  and  shut  out  the 
night.  No  more  stray  customers  to  enter.  He 


City  Block 

turned  the  key  of  the  door.  He  had  his  back  to  the 
door,  seeing  his  work  and  seeing  his  child  who  now 
sat  vacant  upon  the  floor  and  grimed  her  eyes  with 
her  fists  too  sleepy  to  hunt  play  .  .  seeing  his  wife. 
He  sought  to  see  this  woman  who  was  his  wife.  To 
this  end  came  his  words,  old  words,  old  words  he 
had  tried  often,  often  failed  with,  words  that  would 
come  again  since  they  were  the  words  of  his  seeking 
to  find  the  woman  his  wife. 

"Esther,"  he  said,  "it  is  nine  o'clock  and  I  have 
much  work  to  do — a  couple  of  hours  of  work.  .  ." 
— I  could  work  faster  alone,  it  will  be  midnight  so 
with  this  pain  forever  in  my  eyes.  "Esther  won't 
you  go  home  and  put  Florchen  to  bed?" 

She  looked  at  him  with  her  full  lovely  eyes.  Why 
since  he  saw  them  lovely  could  he  not  see  them  lov 
ing?  He  had  said  these  words  before,  so  often 
before.  She  looked  at  him. 

"Esther,"  he  said,  "it  is  bad  for  a  baby  of  four 
to  be  up  so  late.  It  is  bad  for  her  to  sit  around  on 
the  floor  under  the  gas — smelling  the  gas  and  the 
gasoline  and  the  steam  of  the  clothes.  Can't  you 
consider  Flora?" 

"I  am  afraid." 

"What  is  there  to  be  afraid?  Can't  you  see? 
Why  aren't  you  afraid  of  what  will  happen  to 
Flora?  Eh— that  don't  frighten  you,  does  it?  She's 
a  baby.  If  my  Mother  could  see.  .  ." 

"Meyer,  I  can't.  Meyer,  I  can't.  You  know 
that  I  can't." 


City  Block 

He  waved  his  hands.  She  was  stiff.  They  came 
no  nearer  one  to  the  other.  About  them  each,  two 
poles,  swirled  thoughts  and  feelings:  a  world  that 
did  not  touch  the  other. 

He  clambered  back  to  his  work.  The  room  was 
hot.  The  gas  light  burred.  Against  his  temples 
it  beat  harsh  air,  harsh  light,  the  acrid  smells  of  his 
work — against  her  temples. 

Esther  sat.  The  words  of  her  man  seeking  the 
woman  she  was  had  not  found  for  him  but  had 
stirred  her.  Her  breast  moved  fast,  but  all  else  of 
her  was  stiff.  Stiff,  all  she  moved  like  a  thick  river 
drawn  against  its  flow,  drawn  mounting  to  its  head. 
— I  can  not  go  home  alone,  through  the  empty  hall 
alone,  into  the  black  rooms  alone.  Against  their 
black  the  flicker  of  a  match  that  may  go  out,  the 
dare  of  a  gaslight  that  is  all  white  and  shrieking 
with  its  fear  of  the  black  world  it  is  in.  She  could 
not  go  home  alone.  — For,  Esther,  in  your  loneli 
ness  you  will  find  your  life.  I  am  afraid  of  my  life. 

She  was  caught,  she  was  trapped.  — I  am  miser 
able.  Let  me  only  not  move.  .  .  Since  to  move 
was  to  break  against  walls  of  a  trap.  Here  in  the 
heart  of  movelessness  a  little  space.  Let  her  not 
stir  where  the  walls  and  the  roof  of  the  black  small 
trap  will  smite  her! 

4 

The  room  moves  up  the  dimension  of  time.  Hour 
and  hour  and  hour!  Bearing  its  freight  toward 
sleep.  Thick  hot  room,  torn  by  the  burr  of  two 


City  Block 

lights,  choked  by  the  strain  of  two  bound  souls, 
moving  along  the  night.  Writhing  in  dream.  Sing 
ing.  .  . 

— My  flesh  sings  for  silk  and  rich  jewels; 
My  flesh  cries  for  the  mouth  of  a  king. 
My  hair,  why  is  it  not  a  canopy  of  love, 
Why  does  it  not  cover  sweet  secrets  of  love  ? 
My  hair  cries  to  be  laid  upon  white  linen. 
I  have  brought  misery  into  the  world.  .  . 
I  have  lived  with  a  small  man  and  my  dream 

has  shrunk  him, 
Who  in  my  dream  enlarged  the  glory  of 

princes. 
He  looks  upon  me  with  soft  eyes,  and  my 

flesh  is  hard  against  them. 
He  beats  upon  me  with  warm  heart,  and  my 

breasts  do  not  rise  up  for  him. 
They  are  soft  and  forgetful  of  his  beating 

heart. 
My  breasts  dream  far  when  he  is  near  to 

them.  .  .  They  droop,  they  die. 
His  hands  are  a  tearful  prayer  upon  my 

body.  .  . 
I  sit:  there  is  no  way  between  my  man  and 

my  dream, 

There  is  no  way  between  my  life  and  life, 
There  is  no  way  between  my  love  and  my 

child. 
I  lie:  and  my  eyes  are  shut.    I  sleep:  and 

they  open. 

<H6> 


City  Block 


A  world  of  mountains 
Plunges  against  my  sleep.  .  . 


— Lord,  Lord:  this  is  my  daughter  before  me, 
her  cheeks  that  have  not  bloomed  are  wilting.  Pre 
serve  her,  Lord.  This  is  my  wife  before  me,  her 
love  that  has  not  lived  is  dead.  .  .  Time  is  a  barren 
field  that  has  no  end.  I  see  no  horizon.  My  feet 
walk  endlessly,  I  see  no  horizon.  .  .  I  am  faithful, 
Lord. 


The  tailor-shop  is  black.  It  has  moved  up  three 
hours  into  midnight.  It  is  black. 

Esther  and  Meyer  walk  the  grey  street.  In  the 
arms  of  the  man  sleeps  Flora.  His  arm  aches.  He 
dares  not  change  her  to  his  other  arm.  Lest  she 
wake. 

He  has  undressed  her.  Gentle  hands  of  a  man. 
He  holds  her  little  body,  naked,  near  his  eyes.  Her 
face  and  her  hands,  her  feet  and  her  knees  are  soiled. 
The  rest  of  her  body  is  white — very  white — no 
bloom  upon  her  body.  He  kisses  her  black  hair. 

He  lays  her  away  beneath  her  coverlet. 

There  is  his  wife  before  him.  She  is  straight. 
Her  naked  body  rises,  column  of  white  flame,  from 
her  dun  skirt.  Esther — his  love — she  is  in  a  case 
of  fire.  Within  her  breasts  as  within  hard  jewels 
move  the  liquids  of  love.  Within  her  body,  as 
within  a  case,  lies  her  soul,  pent,  which  should  pour 
warmth  upon  them. 


City  Block 

He  embraces  her. 

"Esther  .  .  .  Esther.  .  ."    He  can  say  no  more. 

His  lips  are  at  her  throat.  Can  he  not  break 
her  open? 

She  sways  back,  yielding.  Her  eyes  swerve  up. 
They  catch  the  cradle  of  her  child. 

—Another  child  .  .  another  agony  of  glory  .  . 
another  misery  to  the  world? 

She  is  stiff  in  the  unbroken  case  of  a  vast  wound 
all  about  her. 

So  they  lie  down  in  bed.     So  they  sleep. 

She  has  cooked  their  breakfast. 

They  walk,  a  man  and  a  woman,  down  the  steep 
street  to  work.  A  child  between  them,  holding  the 
hand  of  a  man. 

They  are  grey,  they  are  sullen.  They  are  caught 
up  in  the  sullen  strife  of  their  relentless  way.  There 
is  no  let  to  them.  Time  is  a  barren  field  with  no 
horizon. 


SIX 

UNDEH  THE  DOME :  TAU 


HERE  was  a  light  shining  within  the  lives  of 
Lotte  and  Isidor  Rabinowich. 


She  stood  behind  the  counter  of  their  store 
and  watched  her  husband  place  on  the  opposite 
shelf  tin  toys  .  .  engines,  clowns,  sailboats,  penny- 
bank  .  .  that  had  just  come.  She  had  arranged  the 
syrup  bottles  on  the  fountain.  She  saw  him,  very 
little  man:  she  knew  behind  his  short  sparse  beard 
of  black  and  grey  his  chin  which  she  had  never  seen 
and  which  was  round  like  a  child's :  she  knew  under 
the  skull-cap  a  bland  forehead,  lodged  there  sweet 
ness  and  trust  in  her.  An  ineffectual  man  whom 
she  had  always  mothered. 

"Lotte,  where  will  I  put  these?" 

"Why,  over  there."— Yes  all  this,  "  .  .  with  the 
other  games."  — All  this.  A  child  of  a  man,  my 
Man,  who  has  not  gotten  along.  With  a  temper 
that  flares  at  times.  Not  often.  Shallow  flame 
trying  to  burn  away  in  its  moment  of  life  the  com 
manding — the  real — I  have  had  to  be.  All  this,  all 
this  yes.  But  father  of  my  child. 

She  smiled  at  him :  her  palms  were  upward  over 
her  hips,  they  glowed  there  strong  against  the  grey 
pity  of  her  pockmarked  face.  .  .  — Such  a  child. 
Father  of  him.  .  . 


City  Block 

He  turned  his  colorless  eyes — he  had  felt  her — 
upon  her.  They  glistened  under  her  exultation 
like  waters  suntouched. 

"What  is  it?"  he  smiled  back,  holding  awkward 
a  huge  cardboard  box. 

"Come  here." 

He  leaned  over  the  counter.  She  kissed  his 
lips  .  .  — too  soft.  He  shivered  a  little,  smiling. 

"There  now,"  she  sobered  him.  "Better  take  in 
the  pennies,  Isidor,  from  the  newsstand.  You  know, 
some  of  the  boys,  when  they  pass  by  from  school — " 
She  pondered.  .  .  — They're  not  all  honest,  no. 

He  obeyed  her.  "The  first  letter  of  the  sign  is 
off."  He  poured  her  the  pennies. 

"I  saw  Schmalzer,"  she  nodded. 

He  took  his  place  at  her  side  behind  the  counter. 
Boys  and  girls  will  be  coming  from  school .  .  candy, 
pencil,  soda,  icecream  sandwich  .  .  the  first  warm 
day  with  the  sun  of  Spring  beating  into  the  crevice 
of  the  Block.  In  a  few  minutes  now,  both  of  us 
are  going  to  be  busy. 

They  stood  silent,  thinking:  of  one  height  they 
were:  waiting. 


From  the  West  came  the  Sun  in  shouting  strokes, 
pried  open  the  cold  walls  of  the  Block.  The  Block 
grew  warm,  it  opened  wide  its  tremulous  walls  to 
receive  the  Sun.  .  .  Now  a  flood  within  its  walls. 
Children  pouring  from  school,  bubble  and  pelt  and 
foam  of  children  within  the  Block.  They  sparkled, 

<122> 


City  Block 

they  leaped,  they  clustered.  They  were  a  tide 
under  the  open  walls,  flood  of  the  Sun's  long  strokes 
within  the  walls  of  the  Block.  .  . 

.  .  .  And  the  small  brown  shop,  all  shadow,  the 
little  woman  and  man  standing  within  the  shop, 
within  the  swelling  walls  of  the  passionate  street, 
within  the  flood  of  the  Sun.  .  . 

Door  burst  open.  Boys  and  girls  with  voices 
like  shrill  flowers,  like  golden  pebbles  pelting:  boys 
and  girls  with  wishes — little  flags — upon  their  heads 
and  the  wind  of  the  Sun's  strokes  making  them 
whip  and  snap. 

Lotte  and  Isidor  worked.  Counted  candies  .  . 
six  of  them  for  a  penny  .  .  two  cent  or  three  cent 
soda? .  .  .  Here  are  your  jacks  .  .  we  haven't  straw 
berry  only  vanilla  and  chocolate  .  .  what  did  you 
give  me,  five  cents?  .  .  .  you  scratched  that  ruler. 

Lotte  worked  in  a  smile. .  .  — These  are  children. 
All  they  will  not  grow  into  men  and  women.  The 
Lord  chooses.  Pity  the  mothers  whose  sons  He  has 
not  chosen  to  grow  into  strong  men.  .  .  Her  lips 
moved  faster  than  fingers.  Lotte  worked  with  her 
eyes.  She  found  him,  big  and  dark,  so  strong! — 
outstanding  so  among  children. 

— He  is  my  son     my  Dream  is  bone  of  his 

body. 
He  is  my  hope     my  hope  runs  red  in  his 

veins. 

He  is  my  son  and  my  Dream     behold  he 
is  real! 

<123> 


City  Block 

.  .  .  Far  from  the  Sun,  in  the  thick  clot  of  store, 
came  a  radiance  on  the  wings  of  children,  and  made 
in  her  eyes  a  countering  gleam  against  the  laugh 
ter  of  children. 

— Children,  children  and  my  child.  I  know  that 
I  am  chosen  in  my  child.  He  is  big  and  clumsy, 
he  has  not  quick  laughter  like  that  boy:  no  ready 
words.  He  is  slow — he  is  deep.  There  is  a  glory 
hidden  in  his  eyes.  He  cannot  blossom  so  soon 
like  you.  .  .  five  cents  of  these  ?  .  .  .  whose  mother 
has  not  been  chosen.  Let  her  be  glad  now!  .  .  . 
They  loved  the  Rabinowich  store.  They  paid  their 
pennies  and  stayed.  They  romped  and  quarreled, 
they  cluttered  the  cramped  space  before  the  coun 
ter.  They  made  this  shadowed  spot  of  the  long 
street  wall  burst  with  bright  green. 

Herbert  among  them,  standing  among  and  be 
yond  them.  .  .  — Strange  boy,  what  would  become 
of  Herbert  with  a  less  wise  mother?  There  is 
Cause,  it  was  written  that  I  should  be  his  mother. 
Often  he  is  naughty.  .  .  "Share  your  licorice,  son." 
.  .  .  He  changes,  he  shifts.  He  is  deep. 

— O  you  who  work  beside  me  and  who  are 

weak, 
Whose  weakness  I  share  and  shall  share 

always, 

Behold  we  have  brought  forth  strength! 
— Our  path  is  darkness     we  must  walk  it 
Our  bed  is  darkness     there  must  we  lie. 
<  124  > 


City  Block 

Shadow  is  the  world. 

Behold     we  have  brought  forth  light! 

.  .  .  The  small  store  big  with  the  song  of  chil 
dren.  The  brown  floor  spread  and  adance  with 
children's  feet.  .  .  The  voices  of  children  rose  above 
a  silence,  wondrously,  like  young  trees  of  a  young 
Spring. 

— My  flesh  is  yours     whom  I  could  never  love, 
Behold  it  has  brought  forth  Love ! 


The  children  are  gone. 

They  are  in  the  store,  the  three,  together,  alone. 

"Now,  Herbert,  son  .  .  why  don't  you  go  quick 
and  do  your  homework?  Then  you'll  have  all  the 
rest  of  the  time  to  play.  Come." 

"No  homework,  Mama." 

"Of  course  there's  homework.  You  always  have 
homework.  Don't  you  want  to 

"No  homework,  I  tell  you.  Give  me  another 
licorish  stick.  No  homework." 

"Why — are  you  sure?  That's  funny.  No  home 
work?  Why  no  homework,  Herbert?" 

"Give  me  a  licorish  stick,  I  tell  you.  No  home 
work — no  homework." 

"You  gave  all  the  other  away — I  saw  you.  Dar 
ling!  Here.  Don't  black  your  whole  face." 


<125> 


City  Block 

A  cloud  cuts  the  Sun.  A  shadow  is  a  dark  shaft 
striking  down  upon  the  Block,  the  store.  It  cleaves 
the  heart  of  Lotte  as  the  cloud  cleaves  the  Sun. 
Her  heart  is  opened. 

"What  is  this  afternoon??"  say  her  lips. 

Her  man  turned  to  her.    "It  is  Friday." 

She  smiles  at  his  not-knowing.  Yet  what  does 
she  know  who  smiles  at  his  not-knowing? 

She  holds  her  lips.  .  . 

— There  is  in  this  afternoon  a  sun  and  a  cloud. 
They  have  met  like  man  and  woman. 
There  is  in  this  afternoon  a  cleaving  and 
a  searing.  There  is  in  this  afternoon  a 
Life  and  it  comes! 

The  dark  shaft  cleaves  her  heart  into  two  lips. 
They  speak.  .  . 

— I  am  with  my  man  who  is  an  old  man  and 
whom  I  should  not  have  wed.  He  is  the 
father  of  my  son:  always  I  think  of  this 
that  I  may  not  think  too  sore  how  I  have 
married  the  man  whom  I  should  not  have 
wed. 

My  hair  is  black,  I  am  not  so  old  as  my 
neighbors  feel  me.  No  color  can  break 
the  grey  web  of  my  cheeks,  I  wear  black 
clothes.  For  my  man  is  old,  it  is  good  to 
wear  black  beside  him.  This  is  no  true 
reason.  I  wear  black  clothes  and  I  feel 
<126> 


City  Block 

old  because  of  my  man.  But  there  is  true 
reason  why  he  is  my  man :  this  also  is  the 
reason  why  I  wear  black  clothes. 

Black  is  the  color  of  rejoicing  unto  them 
who  are  chosen  of  God.  I  have  tasted 
God,  all  other  foods  are  poison.  I  have 
seen  the  Lord,  all  other  fires  are  black. 

Beneath  my  black  dress,  mark-meshed  skin: 
beneath  grey  skin  is  my  body  of  white. 

Within  my  flesh  was  a  son,  his  taste  is  my 
flesh.  I  am  a  small  woman  given,  after  I 
was  marked  forever  by  disease,  to  him 
who  would  have  me.  I  have  been  good  to 
him,  he  has  blessed  me.  It  is  by  his  seed 
that  the  Lord  chose  me. 

-Blessed  be  the  long  low  years  we  have  toiled 

bent. 
Blessed   be   their  desert:   for   they  hold  a 

Jewel! 
It  flames  beyond  Grey,  it  is  a  roar  of  glory 

above  silence. 

-He  plays  on  the  floor  in  air  soiled  brown :  he 
shines. 

He  is  strange,  he  is  generous  and  slow.  He 
says  nothing.  Often  his  words  tell  noth 
ing  to  my  mind.  He  is  not  good  in  school. 
He  was  left  back  in  school.  Through  him 
I  am  chosen  of  God. 
<127> 


City  Block 


God  loves  him  above  all  us.  Above  bright 
children,  gay  children. 

This  son  of  my  sad  flesh  is  the  son  of  Spirit. 
He  is  many  strengths,  he  is  many  souls. 
He  is  old  not  to  know  how  to  take  care 
of  wiping  his  nose,  how  to  keep  from  dir 
tying  his  pants.  Grace  and  Light  he 
is.  .  . 

— What  is  this  afternoon?  what  is  this  Life 

that  comes? 
The  shadow  of  the  Lord — the  Hand  of  the 

Lord 

Makes  shadow  of  our  lives. 
Why  should  I  yearn  beyond  the  Hand  of 

the  Lord? 


The  door  opened.  — Customer?  .  .  .  Herbert 
knows  her.  His  teacher! 

"This  .  .  Mr  and  Mrs  Rabinowich?  Good  day. 
I  am  Miss  Klaar.  I  am  Herbert's  teacher." 

A  tall  thin  woman,  gold  hair  waving  away  from 
a  prim  hat,  bright  girl  cheeks,  a  resolute  chin  came 
into  the  soiled  brown  store.  She  stood  stiff  and 
high,  propped  faintly  against  these  two  little  lives 
who  looked  at  her  in  passiveness,  waiting  her  word. 
She  picked  the  mother.  Coming  closer : 

"May  I  speak  to  one  of  you?"  she  said. 

Herbert  pawed  her  hand,  pounded  his  head 
<128> 


City  Block 

against  her  waist:  her  white  hands  were  uneasy 
fending  him  off. 

She  placed  his  blackness  aside.  Lotte  led  her 
into  a  back  room  silent.  There  was  no  word : — she 
is  Herbert's  teacher.  .  .  There  is  in  this  afternoon 
a  Life  and  it  comes !  .  .  .  The  door  closed,  she  Her 
bert's  teacher  had  the  sense  of  the  little  man  and 
of  the  boy  behind  her,  living,  filling  a  world  of  their 
own,  not  her  world:  what  did  she  know  of  these 
worlds  whose  sons  like  shoots  of  an  alien  earth  sat 
under  her  desk,  drank  her  words  ? 

This  mother : — this  is  hard  work ! 

Lotte  brought  her  a  chair,  close  where  she  stood. 
Lotte  stood,  in  a  bedroom.  Miss  Klaar  felt  a  low 
specked  ceiling,  an  iron  bed  so  clean,  scrubbed 
floor,  a  window  grated  pouring  grey  dim  against 
a  glow  in  the  room  that  had  no  kinship  with  the 
harsh  red  paint  of  the  bureau.  It  was  about  her, 
this  world  she  invaded — she  and  grey  dim  through 
a  grated  window — upon  authority  that  seemed  pro 
fane  to  her.  — I  feel  like  a  heathen.  .  .  She 
plunged,  not  letting  the  glow  of  this  meek  strong 
creature  in  black  impinge  too  deep  on  what  she 
knew  was  her  duty. 

"Mrs  Rabinowich,  I  came  to  speak  to  you  about 
your  son." 

"Thank  you,  Miss  Klaar." 

"Won't  you  sit  down,  too?" 

Lotte  sat  on  the  bed's  edge  .  .  there  was  no  other 
chair  .  .  with  a  stern  grace. 

"How  do  you  find  your  son,  Mrs  Rabinowich?" 
<129> 


City  Block 

"Why — I  do  not  find  him.  I — what  do  you 
mean,  Miss  Klaar?" 

"He  is  a  good-hearted  boy.  We  all  love  him  in 
his  Class.  But  he  does  reprehensible  things.  I  feel 
I  must  tell  you." 

"He  is  not  good  in  his  lessons?" 

"Worse  than  that.  He  is  unruly.  He  does  not 
obey  the  simplest  order.  .  .  He  has  been  dirty,  Mrs 
Rabinowich— 

There  was  silence. 

"He  does  not  seem  quite  to  understand  what— 
what  one  might  expect  a  boy  of  twelve,  with  a  good 
upbringing—  "  she  stopped.  " — I  know,  seeing  you 
—that  his  upbringing  must  be  good— 

"No,  no  .  .  I  am  not — very — Miss  Klaar — very 
intelligent." 

"You  know  he  was  left  back,  last  year.  .  .  I  am 
fond  of  Herbert.  .  .  But  I  feel,  Mrs  Rabinowich  .  . 
I  should  long  ago  have  reported  him  to  the 
Board.  .  ." 

"Tell  me.  .  .  What  have  I  done  wrong?" 

"Nothing,  I  am  sure,  Mrs  Rabinowich." 

"Why  report  him?  What  is  there  to  tell?  Tell 
me.  .  ."  . 

".  .  .  It  is  the  rule,  that  when  a  child  does  not 
seem  to  fit  in  the  regular  graded  Class,  Mrs  Rabin 
owich  .  .  that  the  Authorities  should  examine  him, 
in  order  to  find  out  where  he  does  fit." 

"Where  does  he  fit?  .  .  Lower  down?" 

"No,  I  don't  think  so.  .  .  Not  just  a  lower  grade." 

Lotte  feared :  "I  do  not  understand,  Miss  Klaar." 
<130> 


City  Block 

"Of  course!  Now  all  this  will  be  managed  by 
someone  who  does.  I  have  made  an  appointment 
for  you,  Mrs  Rabinowich."  She  took  a  card  from 
her  purse,  she  was  smiling  under  her  prim  serious 
ness: — it  is  over!  "Here,  you  must  report  here, 
at  five.  This  afternoon.  Dr  Finney.  I  do  not 
know  Dr  Finney,  but  he  I  am  sure  will  help  you — 
will  tell  us  more  about — about  what  is  the  matter 
with  Herbert.  If  anything.  .  ." 

She  was  up.  Lotte  held  the  card  in  trembling 
fingers. 

"Do  not  forget:  this  afternoon  at  five.  This 
afternoon.  It  is  a  Board  of  Education  appoint 
ment.  He  expects  Herbert.  .  ." 

She  walked  through  the  shut  world  of  the  store 
with  her  shoulders  thrusting.  She  moved  as  through 
a  sea  toward  air — strained  for  the  street.  She  threw 
up  her  eyes  and  took  in  the  air  of  her  own  world 
once  more.  — This  is  hard  work ! 


Lotte  was  there  with  a  shawl  about  her  head. 

"Isidor,  I  must  take  Herbert  .  .  down  by  59th 
Street.  The  teacher  .  .  ." 

She  stopped.  Isidores  eyes  were  high,  shut  away, 
above  clasped  small  hands.  He  prayed.  She 
waited,  watching  his  shut  eyes.  His  eyes  were  still, 
beyond  swayed  head,  mumbling  lips. 

He  came  forth  from  the  counter:  "We  go  to 
gether.  .  .  I  close  up." 

She  made  no  reply. 


City  Block 

They  walked  up  the  street  with  the  low  sun  red 
in  their  eyes.  The  boy  leaped  ahead,  lounged  be 
hind.  He  was  glad.  Adventure  to  be  so  walking 
through  the  streets  with  mother  and  father.  Both! 
A  blue  car  scraped  to  a  standstill — for  them !  Ad 
venture. 

The  car  lurched  them  on.  A  stress  of  fateful 
purpose  in  the  lurch  forth  of  the  car  that  for  them 
had  scraped  to  a  standstill:  in  the  outlay  of  fifteen 
cents :  in  the  fact  that  Schul  would  be  missed. 

The  City  rose  in  hard  high  words.  Each  build 
ing  was  a  word,  each  street  they  swept  by  was  an 
accent  in  the  ruthless  wording  of  fate,  their  fate, 
as  they  moved  Southward  into  knowledge.  The 
City  was  a  sentence,  harsh,  staccato,  in  an  alien 
tongue. 

Lotte  clasped  Herbert's  hand. 

"Come  now,  darling.    Quiet,  yes?" 

They  rose  on  stone  steps. 

The  hall  was  a  cold  silence  to  which  their  feet 
spoke  fearfully.  They  had  no  other  word.  The 
plastered  walls  gashed  long  against  the  blood  of 
Lotte  moving  toward  Dr  Finney.  She  felt  beyond 
the  head  of  her  child — he  was  a  blotch — her  man, 
beating  with  her,  moving  with  her  inevitably  one,  as 
though  the  silence  of  the  world  were  a  rein  that 
bound  them,  drove  them  together. 

They  sat  in  bright  varnished  chairs  in  a  room  of 
gloom. 

Herbert  was  a  black  blotch  before  Lotte  full  of 
the  glow  of  her  son.  A  big  man  stood  .  .  bright 

<132> 


City  Block 

against  Herbert  and  her  little  man,  clasping  his 
hat :  a  stroke  from  top  to  nadir  against  the  glow  of 
her  son.  A  round  red  face,  yellow  hair  sparse,  gold 
chain  laid  on  a  blanched  vest  took  Herbert  away. 
The  door  shut.  .  . 

They  sat  vised  in  the  fixity  of  waiting.  Their 
being  there,  still  in  the  room,  made  them  one  with 
the  room:  they  and  the  room  moved  onward  to  a 
real  thing  she  could  not  yet  see.  Time  was  unreal, 
waiting  was  unreal.  They  moved  over  a  sharp 
horizon. 

Lotte  sat  in  this  room  with  her  man:  and  her 
child  beyond  under  the  cold  clear  eyes  of  a  strange 
Doctor.  But  she  sat  waiting  no  new  being,  she  felt 
how  all  of  the  world  was  about  her  like  her  flesh 
about  her  heart :  how  it  swung  ahead  into  certainty. 
She  could  not  pray.  She  could  not  feel  the  need 
of  prayer.  God  was  about  her  in  the  certainty  of 
life  .  .  like  her  flesh.  God  was  of  her  sitting  there 
and  moving  there  toward  the  words  of  knowledge 
she  was  soon  to  receive. 

The  words  that  she  approached,  the  harsh  sylla 
bles  of  the  City  she  had  moved  across,  her  son  and 
God  were  one  in  an  immobile  ecstasy  she,  moving 
forward,  limned  and  partook  of.  .  . 

He  stepped  in  to  them  alone — above  wide  vest, 
within  wide  face  eyes  little  and  blue,  cold  and 
impatient. 

Words  came  . .  his  words  . .  words  from  a  Doctor 
who  knows.  —Words  for  my  heart  of  my  son: 
words  born  of  God  within  cloud  of  her  life.  .  . 

<133> 


City  Block 

Listen,  these  words,  lay  them  hot  and  cold  in  my 
open  heart  which  the  Sun  has  opened.  .  . 

"I  suppose,"  he  looked  down  at  a  card,  "Miss 
Klaar,  I  suppose,  has  prepared  you  for  what  there 
can  be  no  doubt  of. .  .  No  doubt  of,  my  dear  people." 

He  looked  at  them.  .  .  The  world  is  one,  these 
words  of  a  world  that  is  one. . .  His  eyes  danced  blue 
against  the  fixity  of  the  room  that  was  theirs. 
"There  is  no  doubt,  my  friends,  your  son  is  not  only 
backward,  very  backward,  will  never  be  anything 
else.  .  .  You  see  how  he  is  now.  Do  you?  His  body 
will  grow  big.  .  .  He  is  healthy  all  right.  You  feed 
him — too  wisely.  Well,  he  will  always  act  just 
about  as  he  acts  now.  No  use  concealing  that.  .  . 
Be  just  as  childish  and  foolish — and  stupid— -as  he 
is  today.  .  .  There  are  things  he  can  learn.  .  .  Not 
what  he  is  taught  where  he  is  now.  We'll  have  him 
placed  in  another  Class  where  he  belongs — with 
others  like  him.  Lots  of  others  like  him,  my  good 
woman  .  .  where  he  can  learn  to  use  his  hands. 
Some  crude  simple  job.  .  .  Never  fear,  there'll  be 
work  always — crude  work  of  the  hands — drawers 
of  water,  hewers  of  wood?  we  need  'em,  I  guess — he 
will  be  able  to  do.  .  .  No  more." 

His  eyes  stopped  dancing  beyond  the  two  dark 
figures,  fixed  on  the  woman.  .  .  "No  more,"  his  lips 
pushed  out  again,  to  her.  The  blue  eyes  gleamed, 
struck  her  black  calm,  came  back,  tremoring, 
screaming,  within  him.  His  face  paled.  He  turned. 

He  flung  open  the  door,  joined  their  son  to  the 
two  dark  figures. 

<134> 


City  Block 

"Good  evening." 

He  tried  to  break  the  daze  he  felt  in  his  clear 
rooms.  "Remember,  here's  the  address  .  .  his  new 
school.  Prepare  yourselves  to  seeing  his  body  grow 
big — bigger  than  yours — America — and  his  mind 
stay  childish.  .  .  Goodbye." 

His  hand  sucked  out,  clasped  the  hand  of  Lotte 
who  stood. 

He  held  her  hand:  there  were  no  words  in  the 
world:  he  felt  behind  the  daze  of  his  clear  rooms  a 
stream  of  strength  moving  resistless  toward  him 
from  this  woman:  toward  daze  in  himself. 


3 


The  Sun  was  gone  behind  the  Westward  City. 
It  threw  its  radiance  into  the  sky,  and  the  sky  was 
a  fused  soft  clearness  over  their  heads  as  they 
walked  .  .  a  gentle  and  warm  sinking  into  night  was 
the  sky  above  City.  Houses,  dying  in  shadow, 
fusing  with  sky,  stood  like  words  spoken. 

"We  will  walk  home,  Isidor." 

"Ain't  we  goin'  to  take  the  car?" 

"No,  son.  There's  no  hurry.  Taking  a  car  costs 
lots  of  money." 

Herbert  leaped  ahead,  lounged  behind,  glad  of 
this  adventure  of  moving  through  the  City,  far 
from  home,  with  his  mother  and  father.  Both! 

They  walked  slow,  they  walked  still .  .  within  the 
glow  of  the  day.     A  constant  measure  they  were 
before  and  behind  their  son. 
<135> 


SEVEN 

JOHN    THE   BAPTIST 


THE  room  was  bright  with  the  sun.  Three 
stories  up.  Three  dark  halls,  three  worn 
stairs,  the  mustiness  of  walls  to  which  grimed 
hands,  worn  shoulders  had  rubbed  their  intricate 
soiled  burden,  held  up  this  room  that  was  all  bright 
with  the  sun. 

The  door  was  open :  two  windows  with  their  mesh 
Dutch  curtains  were  thrown  high:  Clara  Jones 
dusted. 

She  was  a  short  woman,  colored  a  dark  brown  in 
which  were  shadows  of  blue  and  orange.  She  was 
of  indeterminate  age.  She  worked  slowly,  dili 
gently,  with  a  sort  of  submissive  rhythm  to  the 
sweep  of  her  arms,  the  sway  of  her  head:  as  if  an 
invisible  Master  timed  her  work  with  gentle  strokes 
on  her  bent  back.  The  contours  and  objects  of  the 
room  were  a  familiar  haze  against  her  hands.  Her 
eyes  did  not  take  in  the  books  upon  the  mantle,  the 
morris-chair  which  her  hands  groomed  and  shifted, 
the  cover  of  the  couch  which  the  room's  tenant  used 
for  a  bed.  Her  eyes  were  focussed  dimly  beyond 
the  room,  beyond  the  sunlight  also  that  did  not 
make  them  blink — beyond  the  sun.  At  times  a 
murmur  as  of  words  answering  in  herself,  a  shred 
of  tune,  came  from  her.  And  these  were  in  unison 
with  the  rapt  measure  of  her  work.  And  it  with 

<139> 


City  Block 

the  distant  fixedness  of  her  eyes  that  moved  as  if  to 
remain  fixed  upon  some  point  either  far  within  or 
far  without  herself.  .  . 

A  tall  young  man  .  .  almost  a  boy  .  .  stood  in  the 
door.  He  buttressed  both  his  palms  against  the 
threshold's  sides :  he  watched  her. 

Her  face  turned  to  her  shoulder:  then  fell  for 
ward  back  into  its  somnolent  rhythm. 

"Lor!   that   you   already?     You-all   quick  this 


mo'ninV 


"May  I  come  in?" 

"Sho'ly,  sho'ly.     Sit  down  over  th'ah." 

She  did  not  stop.  She  held  a  broom  in  her  two 
brown  hands.  With  a  steady  stroke  of  shoulder 
back  and  forth  it  went,  rasping  .  .  swinging:  her 
small  soft  body  cadenced  to  its  stiff  advance. 

"Tha'ah  you  are,  Mr.  Loer!"  She  waved  a 
musty  rag  over  his  desk,  over  a  picture  nailed  above 
it.  "Th'ah  you  are." 

She  turned  and  smiled  at  him.  He  was  still 
standing  in  the  threshold.  She  had  a  round  small 
face,  and  her  big  mouth  smiling  seemed  to  cover 
it.  Her  eyes  were  still  focussed  distantly. 

She  dropped  the  broom  against  a  shoulder  and 
flung  the  rag  into  the  fold  of  an  elbow.  She 
laughed. 

"What  yo'  got,  this  mo'nin'?  I'm  done.  Come 
along  in." 

"I  don't  feel  like  being  alone  this  morning, 
Clara." 

<140> 


City  Block 

Clara's  smile  was  tender.  Her  face  tilted  to  a 
side. 

"Lonely,  Mr.  Loer?"  she  said.    He  felt  caressed. 

"Oh,  no."  He  stepped  into  his  room,  lifting  his 
knees  unnecessarily  high.  He  sank  down  in  the 
morris-chair  and  primed  a  pipe. 

"Clara,"  he  seemed  to  hold  her,  "how'd  you  sleep 
last  night?" 

She  folded  her  hands. 

"O  fine,  Mr  Loer.  You  know  I  always  sleeps 
fine." 

"Well  I  slept  rotten." 

"Ah  wouldn't  sleep  none  at  all,  Mr  Loer  .  .  ef 
Ah  went  to  sleep  same  as  you  does." 

He  looked  up  from  his  pipe.  "What  do  you 
mean?" 

'Thout  prayin'.  Yo'  tole  me  so,  yo'self.  No 
wonder  you  sleep  rotten.  Lor!  Ah  wouldn't 
sleep  none  at  all  .  .  ef  .  .  Ah  went  to  sleep  'thout 
prayin'."  She  paused.  "Watch  out,  Mr  Loer," 
she  said  with  a  sweet  tremulousness.  "Supposin' 
the  time  comes  when  you  cyant  sleep  at  all." 

"I  don't  know  whom  to  pray  to." 

The  old  woman  looked  at  the  broomstick  stand 
ing  against  her  shoulder. 

"And  you  so — eddicated!"  She  ambled  out,  still 
keyed  to  that  impalpable  warm  measure  kindling 
her  feet,  her  hips,  the  drone  of  her  soft  voice. 

The  door's  gentle  click  made  him  alone. 

He  relaxed  forward  in  his   chair.      Crumpled 


City  Block 

hands  held  his  sharp  fine  chin.    His  eyes  were  dis 
turbed.     They  wandered.     They  saw  his  room: 
sharply  each  object  in  his  room  caught  in  his  eyes 
and  held  there.     His  eyes  were  hurt  because  they 
saw  no  further. 

He  jumped  up,  flung  his  coat.  He  ran  his 
fingers  through  the  high  blond  hair.  He  faced  his 
books. 

Spencer's  First  Principles  .  .  .  Introduction  to 
Anthropology  .  .  .  Dewey's  How  We  Think  .  .  . 
like  long  splinters  in  his  eyes.  He  shook  his  head 
as  if  to  shake  them  out. 

Then  he  took  the  Psychology  book  and  settled, 
rigid  in  his  chair,  to  read. 

His  mind  held  back.  It  seemed  stiff  and  small, 
dry  and  remote.  It  gave  no  attention  to  the  book. 
It  gave  no  attention,  now,  to  the  movement  of  his 
body  as  the  book  fell  from  limp  hands  and  he  was 
stepping  to  the  corner  where  stood  his  'cello. 

He  placed  a  stool.  His  body  flexed  and  grew 
coordinate  as  it  received  the  instrument.  Softly, 
with  eyes  arching  beyond  him  and  his  mind  still 
gone,  he  began  to  bow.  His  mind  held  away  no 
more.  It  broke  forward.  It  leaped,  it  sang:  his 
fingers  moved  with  delicate  precision  making  slow 
music. 

.  .  .  The  street.  A  woman,  tall,  clouded  in  dark 
glow,  whom  he  had  seen,  whom  he  had  seen  in  the 
street.  His  mind  out  there  beats  against  her  up 
rightness:  his  mind  is  a  sea  beating  and  breaking 

<142> 


City  Block 

against  her.  It  went  up,  it  went  down — as  did  his 
fingers — availless. 

.  .  .  His  mother.  There  was  no  doubt,  she  re 
minded  him  of  his  mother  who  had  died  when  he 
was  a  lad  in  Holland. 

Karl  Loer  bent  his  face  upon  his  loved  'cello  and 
played  deep  plaintive  words.  He  saw  the  woman 
whom  he  had  passed  so  often  in  the  street.  .  .  She 
has  arms  piteous  toward  a  man  who  is  her  husband. 
She  pleads  with  her  arms.  She  wears  a  straight 
black  dress.  And  underneath  her  dress  he  saw  her 
breast.  It  is  bleeding!  There  is  an  iron  bar, 
clamped  hard  and  close,  across  the  breast  of  the 
woman ! 

His  fingers  stopped.  He  drew  his  bow  dazedly 
back  and  forth.  He  jumped  up. 

"O  you!  O  you!"  he  cried,  clutching  his  instru 
ment.  "I  could  wring  your  neck.  I  could  dash 

you  to  bits He  lifted  his  'cello  in  violence 

with  both  hands  above  his  face.  Softly  he  laid  it 
on  the  couch. 

He  stood  now  with  eyes  free  and  found  that  he 
was  thinking  of  his  life. 

"What  nonsense!  what  nonsense!"  he  began.  He 
had  forgotten  how  he  had  begun.  .  .  — Mother,  this 
woman  .  .  two  women  I  have  never  known.  He 
loved  his  mother.  He  recalled  her  stately  and  dark 
in  a  town  of  light  plump  people.  He  recalled  her 
lovely  in  a  world  of  clods. 

The  whole  world  knew  that  she  had  been  unfaith 
ful,  and  had  disappeared  .  .  disappeared  forever 
<143> 


City  Block 

and  forever :  that  was  Eternity,  her  disappearing  .  . 
after  his  father  turned  her  out.  He  and  his  two 
brothers  knew  how  sensual  indulgence  grew  like  the 
fat  upon  his  father,  clogged  him,  clotted  his  brain  . . 
and  he  had  turned  her  out.  His  father's  soul  shrank 
famished,  he  was  a  sucking  brute.  Then  he  was 
mad  .  .  she  was  gone  .  .  and  Karl  had  come  away. 

America!  He  brought  to  it,  he  thought,  his 
yearning  and  his  music.  He  dwelt  in  misery.  He 
dwelt,  it  seemed  to  his  free  eyes,  in  misery  that  grew 
more  deep,  more  blind. 

He  wondered  why. 

"I  have  a  good  mind,"  he  said  aloud.  He  swung 
his  chair  to  face  the  row  of  books  upon  his  mantle. 
So  he  sat  looking  at  his  books.  Proud  of  them. 
— I  wonder  why? 

And  as  he  sat,  he  forgot  the  books  that  stood 
within  his  eyes.  He  thought  again  of  his  mother. 
Why  had  she  been  unfaithful?  what  had  driven  her, 
and  what  his  father?  Was  his  brutality  the  work 
of  sorrow?  Had  she  found  joy  in  that  Eternity 
where  he  had  lost  her?  .  .  Sudden  like  a  stroke 
across  his  brain,  the  woman  with  white  breasts 
crushed  in  a  clamping  iron:  her  piteous  arms 
stretched  toward  a  man — not  he. 

He  walked  up  and  down.    He  forgot  the  vision. 

"There,"  he  said  aloud  with  an  emphasis  that 
was  a  plea,  "there  is  what  comes  of  Music  .  .  of 
emotion.  Idiotic  ideas  .  .  visions.  That  woman  .  . 
what  do  you  know  about  that  woman?  Rot!" 


City  Block 

He  bent  down  and  picked  up  the  book  that  he 
had  failed  to  read. 

"Here's  the  place  for  your  mind,"  he  said  aloud. 

"You,"  he  turned  to  his  'cello,  "you'll  go  on  earn 
ing  my  living."  He  stroked  the  fragile  wine-hued 
wooden  breast.  "For  a  while.  .  .  But  you'll  not 
boss  me,  hear?"  He  stood  the  instrument  away. 

There  was  a  knock.    Clara  with  a  letter. 

He  took  it.  He  seemed  strangely  perturbed. 
He  laid  the  letter,  unread,  aside.  As  she  reached 
for  the  door,  "Clara,"  he  said. 

She  turned. 

"Clara,"  he  said  again,  "why  are  you  so  happy? 
What  have  you,  Clara?" 

Her  round  face  was  all  warmth  and  smile.  She 
found  her  ease  on  her  feet. 

"I  had  fo'  babies,  Mr  Loer.  An'  ev'yone  of  'em 
died,  afo'  they  was  six.  An'  my  husband  that  I 
nussed  fo'  ten  years — he  was  sick  ten  years  a'dyin' 
on  his  back — he's  gone  too.  They  is  all  in  Heaven, 
Mr  Loer.  They  is  all  waitin'  th'ah  fo'  me.  Ev'y 
oncet  in  a  while,  they  comes  to  me  at  night.  I  sees 
'em,  sees  'em  standin'  th'ah  as  clar — why  as  clar 
as  you  is!  An*  they  speaks  to  me:  wuds  as  clar — 
as  clar  as  mine  is.  They's  all  gone  and  safe,  awaitin' 
for  me  up  th'ah.  Tha's  why  Ah'm  happy,  Mr 
Loer." 

Old  woman  and  young  man  stood  very  still,  look 
ing  at  each  other.  Karl  stirred  first.  His  hands, 
then  his  head.  He  walked  up  and  down.  She  was 
still. 


City  Block 

"But  Clara— but  Clara " 

She  beamed  on  him. 

He  stopped.     He  smiled  also.     He  grasped  his 
cap. 

He  rushed  into  the  street. 


Into  the  street  his  smile  and  her  words  went  with 
him,  shredding  his  speed,  eating  into  the  mood  of 
his  release,  until  his  smile  went  and  he  stood  stock 
still. 

The  sun  splintered  into  the  Block,  from  the  East, 
through  mouldy  cornices  of  houses.  Men  and 
women  moved  separate  upon  stone,  moved  from 
sun  to  shadow,  brokenly.  The  day  was  yet  too 
young  to  have  welded  them  into  the  substance  of 
the  Block.  Each  was  a  particle  thrown  out  from  a 
separate  home. 

Karl  stood,  looked  down  through  the  scatter  of 
men  and  women,  the  scatter  of  shade  and  sun. 
Athwart  shoulders  and  skirts  and  hats  that  bobbed 
like  dark  flotsam  in  a  golden  sluggish  stream,  he 
saw  a  man  move  up. 

A  weight  rose  from  his  bowels,  clutched  at  his 
throat.  The  man  he  had  seen  once,  with  the  woman 
he  had  seen  often !  Her  husband.  .  . 

A  sense  of  omen  cloaked  his  head  and  made  him 
dizzy.  He  felt  only  his  body  free,  his  head  was 
cloaked.  The  street  was  suddenly  a  force,  physical 
and  relentless,  fixing  him  there  within  the  channel 
of  this  man. 

<146> 


City  Block 

He  could  no  longer  fight  for  the  fading  word  in 
him:  folly! 

The  man  was  almost  abreast  of  him  standing  to 
face  him.  There  in  himself  he  heard,  sharp  like  a 
fusillade,  the  words  that  were  his  own. 

ffFm  stopping  you!  Because  your  wife's  in  dan- 
ger!  Look  at  her!  Who  put  the  iron  bar  across 
her  breast?" 

A  young  man  moved  leisurely  upward.  A  smile 
on  his  ruddy  face,  his  red  lips  mumbling  as  if  he 
discoursed  amiably  to  himself.  His  eyes  wandered 
amenably.  He  saw  Karl.  Something  furrowed 
his  brow  into  a  question.  Karl  swerved  aside.  They 
passed  each  other.  .  . 

And  now  the  word  that  had  been  fading  .  . 
"folly"  .  .  shrieked.  It  besieged  him  and  shrieked. 
It  was  very  brave. 

"Fool!  Fool!"  —What  did  the  words  mean? 
Why  am  I  in  the  street?  Why  did  her  husband 
cross  me  in  the  street? 

His  mind  reached  for  the  surety  of  his  mantel 
and  of  its  row  of  sober  books.  These  casual  things 
could  be  explained.  He  was  lonely.  Perhaps  he 
was  a  bit  .  .  unreally  of  course  since  what  did  he 
know  of  her?  .  .  in  love.  Nonsense. 

He  jerked  his  cap  over  his  eyes.  — Look  at  her! 
Take  away  the  bar!  place  your  arms  there!  .  .  he 
returned  to  the  house  he  lived  in. 

The  area-gate  was  open :  he  went  in  by  it. 

His  mind,  he  was  very  sure,  was  master  now.  It 
was  a  hard  fight  of  course.  He  had  had  so  little 
<147> 


City  Block 

training!  For  so  very  long,  he  had  weltered  in 
emotion.  At  home,  the  emotion  of  rage  and  of 
salvation  against  the  brutal  gluttony  of  his  father : 
the  emotion  of  faith  against  the  crass  certainty  of 
his  world  that  his  mother  was  bad.  And  in  Amer 
ica,  above  all,  the  emotion  of  hunger.  With  one 
way  only  to  destroy  it  .  .  his  easiest  gift  .  .  the  emo 
tion  of  music  with  which  he  earned  his  bread. 

— But  it  shall  not  master ! 

His  mind  pictured  the  book  on  Psychology  upon 
his  mantel.  — I'll  learn  about  that.  And  then 
some  day  I'll  dash  the  old  'cello  .  .  no,  absurd!  .  . 
I'll  sell  it. 

His  feet  led  him  into  Clara's  kitchen. 

She  was  alone.  An  ironing  board  was  laid  from 
table  to  low  shelf.  He  saw  her  back.  A  bent  old 
back  . .  a  small  round  head  .  .  a  mass  of  towsled  hair 
dusted  with  white.  Yet  as  the  bare  arm  pressed 
the  steaming  iron  he  felt  with  a  new  poignance  how 
a  wind,  tropical  and  fresh,  wielded  this  woman. 

He  tiptoed  in,  sat  down  and  watched  her.  The 
rhythm  fleshed.  .  .  A  naked  woman,  tall  and  firm 
and  glowing  like  red  earth.  Her  hands  were  above 
her  head.  Her  hands  were  flowers  with  the  wind  in 
them.  There  was  a  tree  above  her.  And  her  long 
bare  feet,  with  the  straight  toes,  were  somehow 
intertwined  with  the  tree's  roots. 

Clara  moved  to  the  farther  side  of  the  board  so 
as  to  iron  and  see  him.  Her  shoes  were  huge  mis 
shapen  shreds  of  leather  barely  holding  about  her 
feet,  so  that  but  for  the  glide  of  her  body,  her  mov- 

<148> 


City  Block 

ing  might  have  seemed  a  shuffle.  He  saw  her  smile 
now  over  the  board  at  him.  He  thought  of  a  rain 
cloud  saturate  with  sun. 

"Clara,"  he  said,  "I  should  be  studying.  I'm  a 
good-for-nothing.  .  ." 

"Yo'  mus'nt  say  that  Mr  Loer!"  As  her  words 
came,  her  arms  went  pressing  the  steamy  steel.  Her 
shoulders  spoke  in  concord. 

— Nigger  woman  .  .  you  are  all  one!  .  .  .  What  a 
strange  thing  to  think  about  a  person ! 

"No,  Mr  Loer,"  she  crooned,  "yo'  mus'nt  say 
that !  We  is  all  good  f  o'  som'pn.  We  doan  know 
what  a  heap  o'  de  time.  But  we  all  is— 

"How  can  you  be  sure  of  Heaven?" 

She  rested  her  elbow  on  the  board.  "I  done  seen 
it,  Mr  Loer.  I  sees  it .  .  off  en." 

"How  do  you  know  you  see  it?" 

"How  do  I  know  I'se  a  seein'  you!" 

"You  could  describe  me,  Clara.  Could  you  de 
scribe  Heaven?" 

"Why  ob  co'se  I  could  I  What  I  sees  I  can  de 
scribe.  .  ."  She  ironed.  "It's  a  great  big  place! 
Mos'ly  light  .  .  glorious  golden  light!  An'  angels 
in  white  wings  an'  harps  asingin',  asingin'.  .  .  When 
yo'  play  sometimes,  Mr  Loer  .  .  them  waily  shat- 
terin'  tones  .  .  dey  sings  like  dat.  Dey  music  .  .  it 
starts  away  down  an'  it  leaps  away  up!" 

She  ironed. 

"Clara,  what  would  you  say  if  I  told  you  that 
was  all  a  dream — what  you  saw." 

She  beamed  and  ironed. 

<149> 


City  Block 

"The  wise  people,  Clara,  the  wise  men  who  study 
deep  and  who  write  books  .  .  they  say  all  that  is 


nonsense. " 


Clara  beamed.  "Dey  ain't  wise,  ef  dey  say  that, 
Mr  Loer." 

She  was  bent  over  her  towels,  beaming  upon  her 
towels.  Towel  after  towel  she  ironed,  folded,  laid 
upon  the  pile  of  towels  at  her  side  .  .  her  brown 
face  beaming. 

She  stopped.  She  straightened  and  looked  at 
Karl.  Then  she  went  back  to  her  work. 


Karl  was  at  work.  From  twelve  to  half  past 
two,  from  half  past  six  to  twelve  six  days  of  the 
week,  Karl  played  in  the  Trio  at  The  Bismarck. 
Played  sentimental  music  .  .  grime  of  German  and 
Italian  soil,  froth  and  scum  of  Broadway.  He 
drew  with  his  bow  complacencies  and  veiled  obscen 
ities  .  .  at  work.  His  mind  and  his  senses  in  revolt 
leaped  away  toward  life:  swirled,  delved,  circled: 
beaten,  brought  back  to  his  heart  which  sent  them 
a  burden  he  could  not  understand,  would  not  ac 
cept:  of  Pain. 

His  eyes  saw  the  cafe  for  whose  lounging  patrons 
his  hand  fingered,  his  hand  drew  a  bow.  His  eyes 
saw  his  associates  .  .  clever,  ugly  .  .  Stumm  with 
bald  blonde-ruffed  head  at  the  piano;  Silvis,  the 
leader,  dark,  agonizingly  eager  to  be  artistic  sway 
ing,  who  was  a  muddy  cloud  about  his  violin. 

<150> 


City  Block 

Karl  at  work  and  his  mind  and  senses  beating  out 
of  tune. 

The  flamboyant  German  Hall:  smoked  wood 
work,  paneled  and  carved  in  Gothic  sayings,  beer- 
mugs  and  flags  under  the  somber  rafters  like  brittle 
colors  falling,  unable  to  rest.  And  in  the  sudden 
alcoves,  men  and  women:  idle  eyes  that  took  in  so 
little,  moist  mouths,  distended  bellies  that  took  in 
so  much.  Karl  bowing  an  aria  from  Boheme:  and 
the  crass  glint  of  the  Hall  with  its  arrogant  beer- 
mugs,  its  mottoes,  its  elbow-leaning  guests  curry 
ing  his  mind  and  his  senses  as  they  yearned  forth 
toward  purer  air.  .  .  The  bald  head  of  Stumm  was 
round,  it  rested  upon  his  neck  like  the  head  of  a  pin. 
His  wrists  bounced  up  and  down.  They  dragged 
Karl  back  from  the  purer  air  he  sought.  Silvis 
crossed  a  knee  upon  the  other  and  swayed  with  a 
small  finger  fluttering  from  his  bow.  His  eyes  were 
half-shut  in  an  absorbent  leer  .  .  absorbing  Puccini 
whom  he  loved.  The  weak  grace  of  his  body,  sway 
ing,  leading,  sucked  Karl  from  his  need  to  be 
away.  .  .  Karl  at  work. 

Last  chord.  D  A  F  sharp  D.  .  .  Stumm  swung 
about  on  his  stool.  Silvis'  legs  stretched  forward, 
abdomen  collapsed — like  a  bug  stiffened  no  more 
into  organic  form  with  the  creamy  fluid  . .  the  music 
.  .  now  all  oozed  out.  Their  words  scraped  Karl's 
head.  When  their  words  spoke  to  him,  it  was  this 
day  as  if  their  fingers  touched  his  lips. 

"Lehnstein  says  we  are  going  to  move  for  a  raise 
next  Fall " 


City  Block 

"Did  you  hear  about  his  wife?  I  guess  she's  his 
wife " 

"Why  don't  Max  bring  that  beer?" 

The  hard  loom  of  the  Hall,  the  coldness  of  men 
and  women  abject  before  their  senses,  taking  in 
heat .  .  heat  of  air,  heat  of  food,  heat  of  sex  .  .  into 
their  coldness:  the  soil  of  these  two  men,  his  part 
ners,  playing  this  parody  of  life  for  an  unreal  liv 
ing:  himself  with  truant  senses  reeling  back  and 
bringing  to  his  heart  what  pitiful  crumbled  frag 
ments  : — a  woman  stately  with  white  breast  clamped 
in  iron,  a  woman  with  brown  beaming  smile,  all 
One,  a  woman  of  whom  he  knew  no  good,  no  ill, 
save  that  she  had  been  his  Mother — :  or  to  bar  him 
from  these  a  row  of  brittle  books  upon  his  man 
tel? .  .  Karl  with  a  burst  of  pain  he  could  not  under 
stand,  at  work  making  his  living  to  know  that  this 
was  life? 

He  covered  his  'cello  and  stood  it  away  in  the 
corner  made  by  the  piano. 

"Ain't  you  going  to  eat?" 

"No  thank  you." 

He  was  in  the  street. 

Where  was  his  mind?  What  was  he  suffering 
for?  What  about? 

A  lovely  day.  Here  was  pure  air.  Why  did  he 
breathe  it  and  not  taste  it?  He  wanted  more  of  it 
than  he  could  breathe.  What  was  air?  Why  was 
it  pure  ironically  to  him? 

Long  stiff  rows  of  dirty  houses  exuded  like  sweat 
and  excrement  his  sisters  and  his  brothers.  Cold 

<152> 


City  Block 

houses  sweating  in  the  Spring.  Sick  houses  empty 
ing  their  bowels  upon  Spring. 

He  climbed  by  stairs  into  a  house. 

A  swarthy  little  man  in  a  great  white  vest  with 
gold  chain  larding  it  from  arm-pit  to  stomach, 
opened  the  door.  Hands  brandishing,  lying,  wel 
comed  him. 

"Well,  Loer!.  .  Come  in." 

"Just  a  moment  Dooch.  I'm  in  a  hurry." 
— Hurry  for  what?  What  am  I  hurrying  toward? 
" — Will  you  as  a  great  favor,  Dooch,  take  my  place 
tonight  at  The  Bismarck?" 

Brandishing  lying  hands:  "O  my  dear  fellow. 
Y'know  I'd  love  to — anything  to  help  you  out. 
But  I'm  so  busy  .  .  lessons  .  .  lessons  all  day.  I 
must  have  my  rest.  At  night . .  the  only  time.  Why 
don't  you  ask,  let  me  see  .  .  well  Facker'd  be 
glad.  .  ." 

— Another  visit?  "Ten  dollars,  if  you'll  do  it, 
Dooch." 

Hands  dropped  from  lying.  "Well,  you  know, 
I'd  do  anything  for  you.  .  .  Half  past  six?" 

"Thank  you,  Dooch." 

Hands  sincere,  palm  upward:  waiting.  A  bill 
in  a  hand  happy,  silent. 

Once  more  the  air. . 


Sudden  Karl  heard  these  words  in  himself  above 
the  beat  of  his  feet:  "I  have  never  learned  to  use 
<153> 


City  Block 

my  mind.    It's  hard.    That  is  what  hurts.  .  .  It  will 


come." 


His  legs  walked  on.  He  walked  through  desola 
tion. 

"O  God,  let  me  find  something—"  He  stiffened, 
hearing  his  words.  "Of  all  prayers,  if  one  is  ab- 
surdest,  this  is  the  one." 

But  he  walked  still  through  desolation.  He 
sensed  how  he  walked  swiftly.  Interminable 
houses  were  a  heavy  fluttered  Canopy  that  passed 
him:  banners  they  were  of  some  arrogant  Domin 
ion,  dragged  through  mud,  stiffened  in  frost.  They 
shut  him  out. 

Warm  air.    It  was  Spring. 

Children  went  under  his  beating  knees  like  the 
drip  of  frozen  houses  melting  in  Spring. 

"Let  me  think!  What  do  I  want?  .  .  Something 
more  solid  than  air.  .  .  Something  as  pure  that  is 
more  solid  than  air." 

His  right  hand  clasped  his  left  wrist  behind  him. 
His  knees  and  chin  thrust  forward.  From  waist 
to  shoulder  he  tended  back.  So  he  walked. 

He  walked  through  his  life.  He  ached  as  he 
walked  through  his  life.  He  felt  himself  trample. 
He  trampled  what  he  felt. 

Was  it  not  clear?  Clarity.  He  had  lived  in  a 
pigsty.  He  had  come  forth.  He  was  young.  He 
would  make  a  better  way  for  himself  in  the  world 
than  the  way  of  Silvis  and  Stumm.  He  would 
study,  he  knew  already,  and  was  it  not  good  that 
already  beyond  the  bowing  of  fiddles  he  had  won 

<  154  > 


City  Block 

the  trenchant  accent  of  Reason — Spencer,  Darwin, 
Dewey?  He  yearned  toward  the  ecstasy  of  their 
release  from  mists  and  f rowsiness  .  .  from  beer  and 
Puccini.  A  crumble  of  old  churches  falling  in  dust, 
drenching  the  air  with  dust.  He  had  hands  to  tear 
down.  He  partook  of  the  ecstasy  of  the  release 
that  lay  in  clear  books,  clear  eyes,  hands  tearing 
down,  i  . 

His  father  goes  to  church.  He  saw  again  the 
great  stomach  and  the  little  eyes  and  the  twist  of 
the  wreathing  mouth  .  .  the  heft  of  fat  red  hands 
he  felt  .  .  they  were  sodden  in  hair  .  .  beating 
against  him,  beating  the  children  of  his  father's 
house.  Karl's  arm  swung  at  his  side,  his  chin  no 
longer  thrust.  He  felt  now  his  mother's  voice:  it 
lay  like  a  warm  purple  scarf  against  the  chill  of 
his  thoughts:  his  mother  had  a  red  sweet  mouth 
shut  upon  her  Mystery.  She  moves  beyond  the 
shoulder  of  the  Town  like  a  sunset  bleeding.  Karl's 
hand  clasped  a  wrist  once  more  beyond  his  back.  .  . 
The  woman  whom  he  had  seen  in  the  street  and  who 
haunted  him  .  .  he  struggling  against  her. 

"Think!  Think!  Conquer  yourself!" 

He  walked  now  heavy  and  stiff. 

"Very  well.    What  is  she?"  he  fought. 

He  turned  upon  this  woman  with  clamped 
breasts  .  ..  this  Myth  .  .  this  nonsense.  Why  was 
she  like  green  fields?  why  was  his  mind  like  lead? 
— Married  .  .  a  stranger!  O  she  was  suffering,  he 
knew. 

— Once  I  spoke  to  her:  but  my  lips  trembled. 
<155> 


City  Block 

"No.  I  am  married,"  came  her  pleading  whis 
per.  .  .  But  her  hand  moves  toward  him. 

A  complacent  clod  of  a  little  man.  But  husband. 
Married.  A  stranger.  .  . 

Why  was  his  mind  a  forest  of  hot  trees  when  he 
needed  a  path?  A  pavement.  Hard,  clear,  cool, 
like  here  where  his  feet  were  pounding. 

Tedium.  He  played  in  a  waste  of  soiled  senses. 
He  walked  through  a  waste  of  frozen  thoughts.  He 
was  frozen  in  tedium. 

He  sat  down,  for  he  was  tired. 

He  opened  his  eyes. 


The  East  Park  whose  greenness  gasped  its 
scanty  stretch  between  the  loom  of  the  streets  of 
men  and  the  black  tumult  of  the  River.  Here  he, 
sitting  upon  a  bench.  .  . 

Before  his  eyes  first,  two  boys  play  tether  ball. 
One  of  them  strong  and  with  fresh  eyes  swung  his 
racket  well:  it  rose  from  a  clear  forearm,  muscle- 
moulded,  mazed  with  faint  gold  sleeping  hair.  His 
mouth  shut  firm  as  he  stroked.  Against  him,  a  boy, 
shorter,  dark,  older.  He  lunged  with  mouth  slant 
open,  and  dull  feet.  One  of  his  eyes  stared  wide, 
the  other  was  half  shut.  He  lost  swiftly. 

The  victor  stood  bored,  easefully:  looking  be 
yond  for  a  comrade  who  did  not  come.  Saliva  wet 
the  chin  of  the  other,  whose  effort  had  been  great. 
His  hand  hung,  palm  forward,  near  his  knee. 

<156> 


City  Block 

"Let's  try  again,"  he  said.  "You  give  me  your 
side  where  the  sun's  not  in  my  eyes.  That's  fair." 
They  exchanged  places.  The  battle  went  on,  the 
same. 

1  Karl  was  very  tired.     He  leaned  back  in  his 
bench. 

In  three  straight  strokes  came  to  his  passive  eyes 
Sky,  River,  Park.  The  sky  was  steadfast  and 
still:  the  river  was  dense  and  still,  boats  and  waves 
moving  upon  the  river  were  like  the  shiver  of  sun- 
motes  upon  a  steadfast  sky.  The  park  swayed 
under  the  stillness  of  sky  and  water.  Its  swaying 
was  a  word  that  came  from  moveless  lips,  its  sway 
ing  was  a  word  of  stillness  issued  from  moveless 
lips.  Three  horizontal  strokes,  in  the  eyes  of  Karl, 
of  a  world  that  did  not  move. 

Stillness  came  within  him. 

He  turned  his  head  from  side  to  side,  as  within 
steadfastness,  not  stirring  it.  He  saw  no  more,  no 
less  by  turning  his  head.  He  was  within  a  Focus 
where  all  was  steadfast  and  where  stillness  was  all. 
He  moved  his  hands,  and  felt  how  he  was  wrapped 
in  movelessness.  He  was  not  prisoned.  He  was 
free,  fluent,  felt  the  accessibility  of  flight  within 
stillness,  within  changelessness  as  within  air. 

He  sat  upright  on  his  bench  and  was  not  tired. 

He  swung  his  left  arm  slowly  under  his  face:  he 
felt  how  the  world  swung  with  him  so  that  naught 
had  moved. 

Upon  the  cuff  of  his  left  sleeve  a  spot  caught  him 
and  made  him  focus  his  eyes.  .  .  A  cockroach  moved 
<157> 


City  Block 

on  his  cuff.  It  moved.  It  moved  against  the  world. 
It  lied. 

It  flowed  into  the  mass  of  his  right  hand.  It 
was  crushed.  It  was  killed. 

He  said  aloud:  "I  am  sorry,  life.  But  I  cannot 
have  you  around." 

He  was  not  surprised  at  his  words.  The  cock 
roach  was  a  memory  of  what  had  never  been,  fallen 
beneath  the  Word  of  his  movelessness. 

But  his  words  were  another  stroke,  perpendicu 
lar  to  the  three-fold  stroke  of  Park  and  River  and 
Sky.  A  stroke  cutting  along  and  lifting  a  veil 
before  his  eyes.  The  movelessness  of  Life  won  by 
this  fourth  stroke  of  his  words  another  dimension 
still.  So  it  was  that  things  seemed  to  happen. 
Within  his  immobile  vision,  he  watched  things  hap 
pen  .  .  people  move,  sun  slant  farther  beneatli  the 
green  fingers  of  trees  .  .  as  if  this  fourth  stroke 
of  his  words  saying  'Things  happen'  were  a  knife 
cutting  a  cord,  unfolding  a  magic  parchment. 

Men  sat  upon  benches  as  he  sat  upon  a  bench. 
Men  had  feet  on  a  pavement  as  he  had  feet  on 
a  pavement.  Men  had  faces  written  with  thought 
as  he  had  a  written  face. 

All  this  he  saw  as  if  it  were  happening  just  now. 
There  was  ease  in  his  soul  which  took  each  happen 
ing  and  put  it  away  and  knew  that  all  was  one. 

A  man  with  a  black  thick  filthy  beard,  black 
bushed  eyebrows  beneath  which  glistened  black 
eyes,  a  man  with  a  nose  inordinately  long  from  his 
sooty  brow,  moved  upon  legs  that  carried  him  cir- 

<158> 


City  Block 

cularly,  level,  as  if  his  legs  were  wheels  .  .  moved 
about.  He  dipped  his  talonous  hand  into  a  refuse 
can:  his  shoulders  swung  like  the  walking-beam  of 
a  boat.  He  dipped  the  other  hand.  There  was 
refuse  in  his  hand.  He  put  it  in  his  mouth.  He 
dove  under  benches :  he  ransacked  the  scanty  grass : 
he  sought  refuse.  He  put  it  in  his  mouth. 

As  he  ate,  his  black  eyes  looked  at  Karl;  they 
gleamed  with  a  joy  so  full  Karl  breathed  against 
the  glisten  of  his  eyes  sparking  air. 

A  little  man  with  a  face  ghostly  white,  lips  red 
like  a  gash  of  blood  soaking  through  chalk,  a  little 
man  with  up-pointed  shoulders  and  sleeves  that 
were  tatters  to  the  elbow,  moved,  isolate,  intent: 
picking  up  scraps  of  paper.  Each  scrap  his  fin 
gers  feverishly  smoothed,  his  lean  eyes  bent  and 
read  what  was  to  read.  Then  his  fingers  tossed  the 
paper  from  his  eyes  behind  his  back  .  .  eyes  roam 
ing,  roaming  to  another  scrap. 

As  he  read  each  message,  his  lips  moved:  as  his 
lips  moved  they  bled. 

A  man  wide  as  a  hogshead,  short  as  a  boy,  wider 
than  long,  black  as  black  earth,  a  negro  dwarf 
with  a  huge  head  sat  .  .  legs  dangling  from  a 
bench  and  looked  at  Karl.  Karl  saw  him.  The 
dwarf  raised  a  hand  to  his  head  and  doffed  his  derby 
hat.  Courteously  he  smiled,  swinging  his  hat  and 
his  arm.  He  had  white  separate  teeth  and  no  lips. 
Beneath  the  frowse  of  his  muddy  trowsers,  were 
patent  leather  boots.  And  they  dangled. 
<159>  ' 


City  Block 

As  he  bowed,  Karl  knew  within  the  patent 
leather  boots  his  toes  were  twitching. 

Karl  sat  easefully  and  still:  and  was  not  sur 
prised  to  find  beside  him  on  the  bench  the  bearded 
tramp  whom  he  had  seen  so  often,  here  and  else- 
vrhere,  on  his  walks. 

The  tramp  had  always  interested  him:  he  had 
always  wondered  what  could  be  his  story.  But 
always  a  reticence,  savage  or  divine,  fended  this 
shambling  blond  man  who  with  tender  eyes,  a  long 
beard  and  skin  transparent,  blue-veined,  now  sat 
beside  him.  This  man  he  felt,  speaks  to  no  one. 
There  is  an  embryon  word,  yet  dumb,  sheathed  by 
his  presence.  They  sat  before  in  this  Park  on  a 
single  bench,  it  had  been  impossible  to  touch 
his  eyes. 

Slight  and  frail  man  beside  him.  Karl  did  not 
turn  his  head  to  look  at  him.  By  virtue  of  the 
four-stroked  vision  within  which  he  dwelt,  he  saw 
him  clear  with  his  eyes  beyond. 

He  saw  between  the  straight  blond  beard  and  the 
arching  forehead  touched  with  delicate  hair,  a  face 
young  and  worn.  Sunken  cheeks  with  blue  shad 
ows:  blue  eyes  gleaming  in  red  sick  lids:  a  hidden 
mouth:  a  nose  straight  and  fine  and  singularly 
sharp.  He  saw,  lost  within  the  aged  suit  of  brown, 
a  tenuous  body:  and  at  the  hip  beside  him  a  huge 
excrescence  .  .  a  sort  of  tumor  .  .  swelling  the 
trowser  leg  which  elsewhere  hung  in  folds. 

Karl  sat  and  let  the  world  play  and  was  aware 
<160> 


City  Block 

of  himself  and  was  aware  sharply  that  he  was  at 
ease  as  he  had  never  been  before.  Yet  it  was  ease, 
for  he  knew  it  so,  and  somehow  he  remembered. 

From  his  side  a  voice  very  thin,  articulate  like  the 
faint  etch  of  acid  on  a  copper  plate. 

"I  shall  call  you  what  you  like  as  we  sit  here. 
My  name  is  Peter  Dawes.  What  shall  I  call  you?" 

Karl  answered:  "I  have  no  name." 

"You  call  me  Dawes,  then,"  said  the  bearded 
tramp,  "and  I  shall  call  you  Peter." 

Karl-Peter  nodded  within  himself,  to  himself  he 
nodded. 

The  tramp  went  on:  "Across  the  city  the  sun 
goes  down.  It  will  soon  go  down  to  the  Palisades. 
They  are  high  there,  that  makes  the  sun  low.  Do 
you  see?"  He  was  looking  eastward. 

Karl-Peter  nodded  within  himself,  to  himself  he 
nodded. 

"Look  at  the  little  Park,"  said  the  bearded  tramp. 

From  the  Park's  straight  plane,  the  sun  was 
away.  The  hands  of  the  westward  trees  were 
empty.  But  beyond  his  shoulder,  above  the  wall 
of  tenements  stood  a  flame:  it  leaped  up  into  sky 
and  fell  upon  the  Park. 

The  Park  was  thick  now  with  stillness.  It  was 
low,  leaden-green:  it  was  thickly  still  under  the 
leaping  glow  of  the  sun  that  was  not  there. 

Within  it,  moving  .  .  steadfast  in  Karl's  eyes 
.  .  were  busy  men. 

They  pressed  to  and  fro,  furtive,  intent,  secret 
from  one  another.  The  two  boys  at  tether  ball 


City  Block 

kept  exchanging  places :  the  game  was  forever  the 
same. 

Under  Karl's  eyes  was  the  black  face  of  the 
long-nosed  man.  All  of  the  face  that  was  not  in 
hair  was  in  grime  of  coal,  save  the  huge  nose  that 
was  white  and  the  eyes  that  were  clean  and  hard 
like  a  clean  black  sky. 

He  spoke:  "My  name  is  Theophilus  Larch. 
Thank  you,  Theophilus." 

His  quick  hand  delved  into  the  cuff  of  Theoph- 
ilus-Karl's  trowser.  It  held  up  the  dead  cockroach. 

The  long-nosed  man  had  teeth  very  white:  they 
closed  on  the  cockroach  with  a  joyous  crack. 

The  little  man  of  the  red  mouth  was  in  Karl's 
eyes. 

"My  name  is  Martin  Lounton.  Call  me  Loun- 
ton,  Martin.  .  .  And  permit  me."  .  . 

He  seized  Martin-Karl's  hand.  He  smoothed  it 
with  feverish  fingers.  His  lean  eyes  sought  the 
palm  of  it  and  read.  He  tossed  it  from  him,  and 
was  gone,  feverishly  peering  under  bench,  in  grass, 
for  scraps  of  paper. 

The  black  dwarf  bowed  under  Karl's  eyes. 

"My  name  is  Caesar  Dott.  Call  me  Dott, 
Caesar.  And  allow  me  to  congratulate  you  upon 
your  wedding.  Your  Bride  gave  me  a  favor,  from 
her  own  hands  she  gave  it.  Look.  .  ."  He  raised 
his  trowser  leg  and  there  against  the  obscene  mass 
of  blackish  flesh  was  an  iron  bar,  toothed  and 
clamped  in  the  flesh. 

<162> 


City  Block 

"It  makes  my  foot  go  to  sleep.  I  have  to  wrig 
gle  my  toes."  .  . 

Karl  sat  still. 

The  strong  boy  and  the  idiot  boy  who  played 
tether  ball  forever,  forever;  the  eater  of  dirt,  the 
dwarf,  the  picker  and  reader  of  scraps  .  .  joined 
hands.  They  were  unknown  to  each  other.  But 
they  knew  Karl.  They  joined  hands.  And  they 
danced. 

A  heavy,  shattering  measure.  It  made  the  glow 
of  the  gone  sun  tremble,  bounce  up,  join  in.  It 
shook  the  trees  until  their  branches  with  little  leaves 
like  bells  reached  down  into  the  Park  and  the  trees 
danced  also.  It  broke  into  the  sheerness  of  the 
house-walls  and  they  rose  stiffly  and  danced.  All 
danced  .  .  moveless  in  Karl  sitting  upon  the 
bench  beside  the  bearded  tramp. 

He  breathed  in  measure. 

A  row  of  houses  swung  into  the  Park  and  the 
Park  swung  into  the  River:  and  the  River  sud 
denly  straightened  upward  and  thrust  like  a  lance, 
quivering  white,  to  the  Sky.  The  Sky  came  down 
in  a  great  gust  of  wind  and  lifted  the  beating  feet 
and  garlanded  the  trees  among  the  dancing  legs 
of  men,  and  stuck  branches  into  the  windows  of  the 
rollicking  houses.  Karl  breathed  in  measure. 

The  stillness  was  very  thick  like  a  night  without 
clouds  and  with  neither  moon  nor  stars. 

Now,  in  the  dancing  stillness  like  a  single  star* 
a  voice: 

"Think!" 

<  163  > 


City  Block 

The  tramp  was  moveless  beside  him.  His  voice : 
"Think!  For  the  Time  is  not  yet." 

The  star-voice  neared,  no  longer  the  moveless 
tramp's.  It  pierced,  it  was  a  shriek.  .  .  "Think! 
Think!" 

Karl  jumped  up  from  the  bench.  "Think, 
think!"  he  echoed. 

He  thought.  He  beat  with  his  thought  against 
the  dancing  world.  He  lunged  and  thrust:  he 
hewed  with  his  thought  and  beat.  He  beat  the 
Sky  up:  he  beat  the  houses  back.  He  thrust  the 
trees  down.  The  strong  boy  and  the  idiot  boy, 
the  eater  of  dirt,  the  dwarf,  the  picker  and  reader 
of  scraps  .  .  he  hewed  and  beat  apart  from  their 
thick  dance.  He  trampled  with  his  thought  the 
Park  into  the  ground.  .  . 

Then  all  was  as  it  should  be.  .  .  And  it  was  as 
if  he  had  fallen  an  unfathomable  distance. 


He  sat  upon  his  bench  under  the  darkling  sky, 
alone,  beside  the  bearded  man  whom  he  had  seen 
so  often. 

He  turned  to  him  and  nodded. 

The  tramp's  reticent  blue  eyes  nodded  and 
turned  away. 

"It's  getting  late,"  said  Karl. 

He  was  tingling,  as  from  a  mighty  fall  that  had 
not  killed  him  .  .  that  had  made  him  drunk.  An 
infinitude  of  space  coursed  through  his  veins,  as  he 


City  Block 

had  coursed  through  an  infinitude  of  space.  He 
was  daring  as  never  before. 

"Would  you  mind,"  he  turned  again,  very  cour 
teous,  very  quiet,  toward  the  tramp,  "would  you 
mind,  sir,  telling  me  who  you  are?" 

The  look  of  the  frail  man  was  steady  and  be 
yond  him.  His  words  came  still  and  very  far 
away  through  the  straight  gold  beard. 

'You  have  seen  me  often/'  he  said,  "and  asked 
me  nothing.  You  have  thought.  What  did  it 
seem  to  you,  I  was?" 

Karl  was  light  with  the  abandon  of  his  infinite 
flight,  sitting  so  commonly  upon  a  bench.  He  was 
brave  and  clear,  for  his  mind  held  one  memory.  .  . 
what  this  strange  man,  the  first  time,  had  seemed 
to  him  to  be.  The  words  came  unhindered. 

"It  seemed,"  he  stopped  .  .  he  began  again, 
"the  first  time  that  I  saw  you,  I  said  to  myself: 
'He  looks  like  a  ridiculous  Jesus.' ' 

The  bearded  man  gazed  on  beyond  him.  His 
head  moved  dreaming.  His  hands  floated  under 
neath  his  beard. 

"You  were  right  in  what  you  said  to  yourself," 
he  spoke.  "For  I  am  John  the  Baptist." 


<165> 


EIGHT 

HOPE 


HE  was  walking  a  long  time.  It  seemed  to 
him  he  was  walking  always  .  .  walking 
toward  no  thing  .  .  walking  away.  He 
had  the  sense  of  himself  very  white,  very  dim  yet 
sharp:  white  thin  throat  weary  with  breathing, 
white  brow  weary  with  pressing  through  black  air, 
white  feet  weary  with  walking  away.  He  had  the 
sense  of  himself  a  white  thing  walking  forever 
from  the  dark,  through  dark.  .  . 

He  had  no  thoughts.  His  past  was  the  wake 
behind  his  feet.  He  sensed  it  arching  up  behind 
him  to  a  black  horizon,  arching  beyond  horizon,  the 
wake  of  his  past  .  .  a  thing  that  was  not  he  and 
was  not  the  darkness:  was  the  stain  of  his  white 
passing  along  upon  the  dark  that  passed  never.  .  . 

His  past  was  beingless  and  thoughtless.  He 
was  moving  whiteness,  his  past  was  where  he  had 
moved.  Yet  certain  knowings  went  with  him. 
They  were  without  dimension.  They  were  im 
palpable  like  odors.  He  moved,  a  white  moving, 
and  with  him  emanations  .  .  things  he  knew  about 
himself  and  the  world  .  .  frail  pitiful  things,  im 
palpable  like  odors. 

One  knowing :  he  was  lonely.  One  knowing :  his 
loneliness  was  not  a  birth  of  his  leaving  his  beloved, 
but  his  leaving  her  was  a  birth  of  his  being  lonely. 
<169> 


City  Block 

They  loved  each  other.  There,  between  them, 
growing  like  a  tree,  his  loneliness.  Like  a  tree 
clef  ting  a  rock,  his  loneliness:  as  they  clove  to 
gether,  as  his  arms  were  about  her  body,  as  his 
mouth  was  upon  her  mouth  .  .  loneliness  clefting 
them  asunder.  It  spread.  It  blossomed.  It 
spread  up  until  its  branches  were  sky,  until  its 
roots  were  earth  .  .  until  its  trunk  was  life  between 
earth  and  sky.  His  loneliness  blotted  out  his  be 
loved.  His  loneliness  blotted  out  himself.  He 
was  moving  whiteness,  moved  by  loneliness  to  walk 
forever  away. 

He  stood  at  the  corner  of  the  Block  and  tried 
to  change  himself  into  a  thing  that  thinks. 

He  tried  hard:  his  legs  hurt:  he  tried  to  think 
of  that.  There  was  an  empty  whiteness  in  his 
stomach.  He  tried  to  think  of  that  and  of  the 
simple  way  .  .  there  was  money  .  .  whereby  he 
could  recolor  his  stomach  red.  Against  his  brow 
black  fumes  of  people  moved  .  .  slow,  tragically, 
men  and  women  in  black  shoes  pushing  white  faces 
away,  moving  against  each  other  forever  away 
through  black. 

Lost  long  strokes  .  .  white  soot  in  blackness 
streaking  from  before  his  eyes,  into  the  pregnant 
distance  .  .  men,  women.  Little  balls  of  tremu 
lous  commotion  .  .  black  all  about  their  whiteness 
moulding  their  whiteness  .  .  children.  Above  his 
hat,  the  Elevated  Road  .  .  a  balance  in  sonorous 
black  where  all  that  was  over  it  and  under  was  con 
tained.  The  structure  so  immediate  above  him,  so 

<170> 


City  Block 

infinite  beyond  him,  was  a  Word.  Its  recurrent 
meaningless  boom  had  meaning  for  him.  He 
stood,  white  upright  wisp,  and  listened  to  the  word 
of  the  murmuring,  pounding,  failing  train,  to  the 
refrain  before  and  after  of  long  black  beams  part 
ing  the  dwellings  of  men,  swung  between  mists. 

He  took  this,  satisfied,  in  place  of  thought. 

The  airs  of  self  were  free  to  touch  him.  He 
knew  now  for  long  he  was  wandering  the  City. 
Long,  he  had  no  thought  of  his  beloved,  no  care. 
He  knew  that  soon  he  would  stop.  His  whiteness 
.  .  because  he  needed  so,  so  hoped  .  .  was  going 
to  stop. 

The  street  corner  where  he  stood  was  sharp. 
Blackness  still.  But  each  particle  in  his  eyes  stood 
away,  stood  up:  each  particle  like  iron  dust  was 
suddenly  within  the  sway  of  a  hid  Magnet  so  that 
each  particle  stood  up,  yet  otherwise  did  not  move. 

A  saloon  with  garish  yellow  light  and  yellow 
wood.  Grey  pavement.  Desolate  forms  of  men 
like  lamp-soot  on  the  yellow  wood,  on  the  yellow 
light.  Grey  pavement. 

Then  in  the  foreground  of  his  eye  a  sudden  force 
upon  him,  a  slow  thin  form.  He  saw  her  big  awk 
ward  hat,  her  shoes  stuck  out  from  the  wood  stiff 
ness  of  her  coat.  He  saw  her  wrists  stuck  out 
from  the  stiff  wool  arms:  two  hands,  luminous, 
sinuous,  flexed  .  .  hands  moving  in  air.  The  air 
that  her  hands  moved  wreathed  in  volumnear  curves 
like  the  curves  of  a  slender  stem  of  a  flower,  to  her 
head.  This  he  saw  also.  He  saw  within  the  black 


City  Block 

of  her  stupid  hat  a  smile  toward  him.  He  felt 
her  throat. 

He  left  the  yellow  light.  The  grey  pavement 
here  was  gaseous,  clouded  beyond.  In  the  dim,  he 
knew  the  woman  beside  him. 

She  walked.  Her  parting  the  blackness  left  a 
wake  that  sucked  him  subtly,  slowly.  Not  horizon 
tal  but  in  true  measure  with  her  was  their  way: 
the  spirallic  leap  and  dip  of  an  uneven  hoop. 
There  was  a  heavy  door  and  a  room  .  .  he  quiet 
beside  her. 

He  was  aware  of  quiet.  The  gas  jet  spat  light 
with  a  rasping  breath.  It  and  his  breathing  and 
her  breathing  were  encased  in  quiet.  The  room 
was  thick  and  muffled.  Foul  walls  that  were  thick, 
the  heavy  scarlet  cover  on  the  bed,  the  painted  door 
.  .  made  the  quiet.  These  were  a  fabulous  womb 
about  her  breathing  and  his  and  the  gas  light. 

She  took  off  her  hat.  She  took  off  her  wood- 
brown  coat.  She  turned  her  eyes  upon  him  .  . 
the  white  of  her  eyes.  Then  her  hands  uprose, 
they  swam  upon  her  like  fish  deep  in  dark  waters. 
She  took  off  her  tawdry  one-piece  dress.  She  took 
off  her  heavy  shoes  and  her  coarse  stockings.  She 
ripped  soiled  flannel,  sparking,  from  her  skin.  She 
lifted  the  scarlet  cover  and  her  black  body  slid 
within  the  bed. 

He  flung  away  the  cover.  Her  black  body  lay 
on  the  white  sheet.  He  looked  at  her  body.  She 
looked  at  her  body.  It  was  a  black  still  thing, 
flowing  forever  within  itself,  moveless  beyond  its 


City  Block 

boundaries  which  were  white.  And  within  its 
blackness  a  glowing  cloud  of  white,  making  it  blue, 
making  it  yellow  and  blue,  making  it  blackness 
alive. 

He  said  to  himself:  "Now  I  had  better  think." 

He  took  off  his  clothes.  He  let  the  room  close 
in  on  him,  touch  him  everywhere  .  .  at  his  throat, 
under  his  armpits,  at  his  thighs  .  .  the  foul-padded 
room.  He  lay  beside  her.  He  said  to  himself: 
"Now,  think."' 

He  lay  still,  stiffly.  She  seemed  to  heed  him,  so. 
She  relaxed  beside  him.  She  lay  relaxed.  Barely 
her  skin  in  the  narrow  bed  touched  his. 

So  they  lay:  gaze  threading  upward  like  un 
troubled  smoke;  he  stiff,  she  undulous  easeful, 
black  like  a  buried  sea:  both  still. 

The  wave  of  her  was  measurelessly  long  as  if 
some  tiding  force  .  .  no  wind  .  .  with  infinite 
stroke  caused  it.  He  felt  himself  white.  He  felt 
this  blackness  beside  her.  He  was  not  stiff.  He 
was  not  moving  away.  He  knew,  in  her  black 
ness,  the  white  mist  running  through:  saturate 
white,  invisible  from  the  blackness  of  her  body, 
making  it  alive. 

A  great  need  filled  him.  He  .  .  separate 
white,  living  through  black  .  .  felt  the  need  and 
felt  the  power  to  be  merged  in  her,  to  join  the  white 
mist  that  made  her  black  alive. 

Passion,  pure  beyond  object,  lifted  him  so.  He 
took  her  body:  it  was  body:  black  dead  body  she 
was.  So  he  took  her.  So  he  made  her  alive.  He 

<173> 


City  Block 

was  impress  of  life  upon  her  substance:  he  was 
song. 

Before  his  eyes  was  dark  void.  Falling  through 
void  threads  of  white,  globules  of  white :  in  his  eyes 
this  woman's  body:  falling  through  it,  himself. 


He  lay  smiling  with  shut  eyes  on  his  back. 

She  left  the  bed  and  knelt  on  the  floor  beside  him. 

She  kissed  his  feet.  She  kissed  his  knees.  She 
took  his  fingers,  pressed  each  finger  one  by  one,  on 
her  eyes.  His  fingers  were  cold. 

She  beat  her  brow,  dashed  her  brow  and  her 
breast  against  the  iron  bed.  .  . 


NINE 

CANDLES 


WHAT  a  big  place  this  is!  Would  you 
think  there  could  be  trouble  in  my  fitting 
here?  .  .  so  big  a  place?  .  .  I  so  small? 
And  it's  all  but  one  name  .  .  New  York  .  .  shorter 
than  mine  which  is  Godfrey  Dunnimore  Carber. 
Names  do  not  count,  it  seems.  I  am  a  bit  of  a  man 
with  a  seven-syllabled  name  in  the  vastness  New 
York. 

Dora,  your  name  is  like  the  City's.  Short :  they 
sound  alike.  You  too  enclose  me.  But  so  differ 
ently.  It  in  hardness,  you  in  softness.  It  in  indif 
ferent  storm,  you  in  the  calm  of  love.  New  York 
has  a  top  of  sweeping  stone.  You  have  hair.  Your 
eyes  are  brown  and  the  eyes  of  New  York  shriek 
white :  white  eyes  that  make  a  noise  and  cannot  see, 
and  that  peer  blind  at  night. 

Your  hand  turns  the  knob  outside.  There  you 
are,  Dora. 

You  come  toward  me,  I  love  you.  Within  the 
black  crinkling  skirt  your  legs  move  back  and 
forth  .  .  soft  tender  legs.  Within  the  white  waist 
is  your  flesh:  full  and  firm:  ripe  like  a  rose.  Yon 
are  a  marvelous  bloom  of  ripe  white  flesh,  coming 
toward  me.  You  make  little  noise  when  you  walk 
or  when  you  talk.  . .  And  I  count  vastly!  In  your 


City  Block 

arms  I  count.     I  count  One,  alone,  in  your  arms. 
You  love  me.    What  is  the  City? 

There  is  a  place  for  me  in  the  City,  but  it  is 
not  a  business  place. 

I  taught  school  in  Maine.  I  shall  teach  school  in 
New  York. 

Lads  and  girls  sat  warm  and  pliant  within 
benches.  I  placed  before  them  tablets  rather  bitter 
on  the  tongue,  rather  hard  to  get  down.  My  hand 
placing  each  tablet  gives  a  caress  that  has  no  name 
and  that  passes  therefore  with  the  tablet  down  into 
the  heart  of  the  boy,  into  the  heart  of  the  girl. 
There!  I'll  do  it  again,  since  there's  no  place  for 
me  in  business.  What  odds?  Room  afloat  in  a  field 
with  trees  at  one  side  and  pasture  at  the  other. 
Room  that's  aswing  between  the  seasons  of  snow 
and  of  green,  between  the  worlds  of  soil  and  of  sky. 
Here  a  room  propped  stiff  in  a  pile  of  bricks  with 
other  stiff  rooms  like  it.  No  swing  between  the 
meadow  and  the  trees,  between  the  snowdrift  and 
the  violet  shadow.  No  swing  at  all.  But  the 
benches  the  same  and  the  young  sheer  song  of  my 
girls,  and  the  silly  tablets  of  knowledge,  and  my 
caress  that  salves  the  tablet  and  that  is  good,  being 
nameless. 

No  good  things  have  names  save  myself  and  my 
wife  Dora  and  my  girls.  Other  names  mean  lies. 
School  that  does  not  teach  a  thing  and  that  would 
be  terrible  void  without  my  nameless  caress:  or 
New  York  that  has  no  right  to  sound  the  least  like 
Dora  .  .  these  are  examples. 

<  178  >' 


City  Block 

Now  there's  another  name  that  doesn't  mean  a 
thing.  .  .  Dora  says  to  me:  "Dear,  I  am  going  to 
have  a  child.  We  are  going  to  have  a  child."  She 
puts  that  name  on  us.  And  it  doesn't  mean  a  thing. 
There  is  Dora:  here  am  I.  Where  is  the  child? 
"In  me  .  .  down  here  in  me!"  He's  not  there.  I 
don't  feel  he  is  there. 

Dora  got  fatter.  Sudden  spurts  she  had  of  get 
ting  fatter.  Her  growing  was  not  like  a  gradual 
hill,  but  like  a  stairs.  I  always  said:  "He's  not 
there.  I  don't  feel  he  is  there." 

And  when  he  died  (the  little  baby  who  had  said 
no  word,  who  had  scarce  cried  so  little  alive  he  was 
in  the  lash  of  life  ere  he  died),  I  went  in  to  Dora. 

She  lies  soft,  spread-out  in  our  bed.  Like  the 
pillows  and  bedclothes.  Warm,  tender — but  caring 
more  for  me  than  the  bedclothes  that  let  me  slip  in 
and  that  warm  me,  yes:  but  don't  feel  much  for 
me.  And  I  said: 

"Dora,  I  told  you  he  wasn't  true.  I  told  you 
I  never  felt  him  there." 

She  looked  at  me.  I  know  what  was  in  her  eyes : 
"The  pain  of  him  .  .  that  was  true.  That  proves 
he  was  true!" 

But  I  paid  no  heed  to  her  eyes. 

"You  see?" 

She  wept.  She  lay  there  soft  and  spread  out, 
and  the  tears  fell  heavy  down  her  heavy  cheeks  .  . 
pale  heavy  cheeks. 

"Don't  cry,"  I  said  very  sharp,  for  I  could  not 
bear  her  tears.  They  made  my  nerves  start  in  a 
<179> 


City  Block 

rushing  panic:  fly  out  from  within  my  flesh  in 
myriad  ways  like  a  thousand  beasts  with  hard  hoofs 
in  my  flesh.  "Don't  cry,"  so  I  said,  "about  someone 
who  never  was.  Don't  cry  about  nothing."  — My 
pain  and  my  longing  .  .  my  agony  and  my  love :  so 
spoke  her  eyes.  — What  do  you  know?  aren't  these 
real?  But  she  lay  silent. 

"It  is  nothing."  I  spoke  higher.  I  walked  up 
and  down  the  room.  "The  baby  was  not  real.  I 
told  you  so!  Wouldn't  I  have  known  if  he  had 
been  real?  Wouldn't  I  have  seen  him  in  your  flesh? 
Wouldn't  I  see  him  now  upon  your  breast?"  I 
looked  straight  at  her.  Dora  stopped  her  tears. 

"You  are  real,"  I  cried.  "Dear  Dora  .  .  all  of 
you.  That  is  real!  Your  heavy  braided  hair  atop 
your  head,  and  your  square  long  chin  and  your 
hands.  We  are  real,  Dora.  Don't  you  cry  about 
nothing." 

Sudden  her  eyes  that  had  been  in  tears  were  dry 
with  looking.  She  looked  at  me.  Terror  looked  at 
me.  Her  long  lips  pressed  and  the  lips  were  dry. 
So  she  stayed  .  .  spread  forth  in  our  bed  like  a 
silence  upon  it.  .  . 


I  am  happy.  O,  that  is  plain  even  to  me,  and 
most  folks  who  know  about  themselves  are  precisely 
they  who  can  not  say:  I  am  happy. 

I  am  happy.  Dora  is  out  of  bed.  It  is  our  bed 
still.  No  one  has  been  in  it  beside  us,  no  one  has 
been  in  it  between  us.  It  is  our  bed,  our  night: 

<180> 


City  Block 

even  there  are  no  dreams  to  stand  between  us.  And 
she,  unchanged,  is  lovely  for  me  to  behold. 

I  open  my  eyes  .  .  I  may  close  them  again  if  I 
wish,  and  I  do  wish  for  she  lies  still  beside  me.  It 
is  not  yet  seven  o'clock.  At  first  when  I  so  opened 
my  eyes,  I  turned  and  with  eyes  clear  looked  at  my 
love.  She  lies  there,  lost  in  the  bed  save  for  her 
hair  like  a  brown  bloom;  and  hidden,  half  her  face 
slumberous-warm,  all  lost  in  two  softnesses — her 
sleeping  and  the  pillow.  But  she  turns  her  head, 
she  opens  her  eyes,  feeling  my  eyes  upon  her.  They 
open  with  immediate  knowing  of  my  presence: 
they  smile  the  rounded  knowing  of  her  heart,  at  all 
hours,  all  depths  of  sleep  or  waking,  that  I  am 
right  there.  Now,  when  I  so  open  my  eyes  and  it 
is  not  yet  seven,  I  shut  them  and  so  see  Dora. 
Lying  on  my  back  I  see  her  as  I  will:  her  plantur- 
ous  hair  and  her  shut  eyes  and  their  glow:  see  her 
breasts  large  but  firm  against  the  gown,  and  her 
hands  that,  when  we  are  close,  move  on  my  skin 
like  a  mother's  .  .  bathing  me,  bathing  me  all. 

It  is  seven  now,  for  Dora  jumps  from  bed.  A 
match  scratches:  a  gas  jet  spurts:  water  pours: 
water  bubbles  and  boils :  bread  toasts  succulently  in 
the  air  of  my  world :  and  in  it,  close,  my  bed  and 
myself  shut  eyes  on  my  back,  knowing  the  making 
of  breakfast. 

"Godfrey,  get  up  dear." 

It  is  a  way  to  start  a  morning. 

We  sit  in  this  way  at  table.  There  is  a  news 
paper,  it  does  not  come  between  us.  There  is  the 


City  Block 

food,  it  takes  no  space  between  us  sitting  across  the 
table  silent,  save  for  sparse  words,  eating  our  break 
fast. 

I  love  her  so  .  .  with  my  eyes  shut,  in  bed  .  .  or 
across  from  me  at  breakfast  and  at  supper:  or  in 
the  reticence  of  shadow,  of  occupation,  of  half 
sleep.  She  helps  me  on  with  my  coat.  There  is 
the  square  room  hoisted  on  a  brick-pile  .  .  school .  . 
and  the  clear  crisp  children  (girls  alone  since  I  am 
in  New  York)  breaking  out  from  their  benches 
like  young  grass  from  pave-stones.  Dora  along, 
the  glow  of  her  hands  on  my  skin,  the  bloom  of  her 
hair  in  the  world  wherever  I  go. 

And  now,  still  so  .  .  the  child  was  never  there, 
since  he  is  not  there  yet.  What  difference  ?  God  is 
good  to  a  small  man  with  hair  thinning  and  at  thirty 
getting  grey,  who  taught  school  in  Maine,  who 
found  no  business  place  in  a  very  large  city  full 
of  gaps  and  holes,  but  who  can  teach  school  still, 
handing  along  to  his  girls  the  caress  of  his  Dora 
to  him.  .  . 

But  I  do  not  want  to  see  your  breasts,  my  Dear ! 
I  do  not  question.  It  is  easy  enough.  You 
were  ever  modest.  In  a  swift  blaze  of  our  room, 
your  modesty  burned  up.  You  are  modest  again.. 
We  do  not  look  upon  each  other  as  we  undress.  A 
turn  of  the  wrist  puts  the  gas  out.  As  I  creep 
toward  you,  as  I  lie  a  moment  gentle  close  beside 
you,  gentle  still  now  upon  you,  creeping  up,  creep 
ing  down,  there  beneath  my  chest  your  two  great 
breasts  upstanding — holding  me,  my  Dora,  as  your 

<182> 


City  Block 

mouth  my  mouth!     .  .  .  Your  breasts  have  not 
changed. 


It  began  to  snow  while  they  were  still  at  break 
fast.  It  snowed  all  through  lessons.  Through  re 
cess,  through  study-hour,  through  lessons  again  it 
snows.  As  the  school  doors  burst  open,  the  world 
is  snow:  the  school  rooms  were  hot  holes  in  the 
falling  snow-world.  Naught  is  steadfast  save  the 
snow  falling. 

There  is  a  visit  far  uptown  for  Godfrey  Carber 
to  make. 

"I'll  not  be  home  till  late,  dear,"  he  has  said  at 
breakfast. 

"Not  be  home  after  school?" 

"No,  dear.  Tillie  Lenbach's  father  .  .  he's  had 
an  accident.  He's  at  a  hospital  where  they  took 
him  .  .  near  where  he  works  .  .  in  the  Bronx.  I've 
told  Tillie  I'd  go  up  with  her  and  see  him."  .  .  . 

They  press  .  .  tight  bodies  bundled  in  grey  .  . 
through  the  blue  dance  of  snow.  The  girl's  hair  is 
cowled  by  a  tam-o'-shanter,  the  snow  warms  on  it 
and  her  brow  is  wet.  His  slouch  hat  lies  unsurely 
on  his  hair  which  is  full  of  starlike  flakes,  melting, 
renewing.  At  crossings,  he  takes  her  mittened 
hand.  They  are  happy.  Their  knees  with  almost 
equal  measure  prance  against  wind-flung  sheets  of 
the  jolly  snow.  They  pass  a  post  of  hostile  boys 
primed  with  snowballs.  He  is  struck  in  the  shoul 
der.  "O,"  cries  the  little  girl,  "I  can  duck  much 
<183> 


City  Block 

better  than  you!"  "You  think  so?"  he  challenges 
back.  He  stops  and  pulls  off  his  gloves.  With  a 
firm  ball  he  meets  one  of  the  post  across  the  street, 
strikes  him  clean  on  the  chest.  A  volley  misses 
his  head.  Shouts!  They  march  out  of  reach. 
"Goodie!"  she  admires. 

In  the  long  hall,  thick  with  chloroform  and  the 
drench  of  swabbed  wood,  washed  linen,  their  bodies, 
geared  to  meet  storm,  glow  roaringly  against  the 
debile  steamy  air.  They  are  happy  no  more.  He 
thinks  of  Dora.  —I  shall  be  back  home  soon.  Her 
thick  coiled  hair !  The  visit  is  a  pause,  a  barrier  to 
pass  ere  he  returns  to  his  Dora. 

The  sight  of  the  man  coming  out  sheer  from  the 
rows  of  suffering  beds  sickens  his  nerves.  He  is 
encased  in  fragile  pain.  — If  I  move  I  tear  against 
this  poor  man's  pain.  Blood  will  ache  out.  There 
he  lies  with  his  crushed  legs:  here  I  stand  with 
crushed  senses,  as  if  his  hurt  touched  and 
crushed  me. 

—Dora  soon.    The  firm  full  flesh  of  her  .  .  her 
arms,  her  eyes.    Air  soon! 

He  takes  the  hurt  man's  hand,  and  pain  like  a 
shower  of  splintering  glass  is  through  him.  His 
words  of  amity  are  from  lips  pain-bled  as  by  glass : 
even  his  eyes,  seeing  the  unshaven  face  long,  gaunt, 
and  the  sticky  eyes  and  the  sticky  mouth  and  the 
moist  haired  chest,  are  cut  by  what  they  see. 

"Tillie'll  stay  longer  ...  I  must  go."  He  is 
gone.  — Dora  has  a  smile  like  young  summer. 
Now  back,  now  back  to  Dora! 

<184> 


City  Block 

He  jumps  on  a  car.  But  its  lame  progress 
against  snow,  against  carts  stalled  on  the  track, 
against  the  black  mass  .  .  man  .  .  filtering  in  and 
away,  wears  him.  He  is  back  on  the  street,  plough 
ing  through  the  snow:  about  him  dark  streaks  of 
men  and  women,  ploughing,  ploughing. 

The  blue  streaming  snow- world  turns  inside  out 
to  dark:  this  the  night's  coming.  Godfrey  makes 
his  progress.  — Dora  soon.  Home  soon!  Soon 
the  marvel  of  her  girlhood  who  is  strong  like  a 
mother.  .  . 

Here  is  the  Block.  Endless  long.  — How  can 
my  feet,  pushing  little  fragments  of  the  snow-full 
Block,  push  it  behind  me?  Feet  push. . .  Feet  push, 
behind,  little  bits  of  the  Block.  The  flat  looms  up. 
The  stair  looms  up.  The  door  is  open  ere  he  reaches 
it.  Dora!  .  .  . 

— She  is  not  young  at  all! 
Her  eyes  are  heavy  and  dull! 
Her  hair  is  no  coil  of  Spring! 
Her  breast  sags!  she  sags! 

— A  woman  who  has  suffered  and  who  has  had 

a  child! 

Death  greys  her ! 
She  is  no  mother.  .  .  She  is  matronly! 

He  came  in  dazed.    His  body,  like  a  draughted 
fire,  roars  with  the  storm  it  has  passed  through. 
So  his  mind.    He  thins  away:  what  he  sees  thins 
<185> 


City  Block 

with  him.  A  haze  looms  from  the  impossible  impact 
with  storm  and  sudden  truth,  longing  and  a  fact! 
Good  haze.  It  is  about  his  eyes  .  .  shutting  all  out 
— all  Dora. 

"I  am  tired."  The  room  spins  faintly.  — How 
little  I  am!  He  feels  like  a  thing  half  burned. 

She  undressed  him  tenderly.  His  head  lagged, 
his  eyes  were  dim  and  far  from  her  working  upon 
him. 

She  put  him  to  bed  and  gave  him  hot  brandy. 
He  slept.  — I  grow!  .  .  For  the  first  time  in  their 
bed,  inviolate  till  now,  a  dream  came  to  him.  .  . 

—She  is  full  Springtime. 
Her  hair  coils  like  June. 
Her  hands  upon  me 
Flower  my  flesh  like  June. 
Her  face  is  June 
Upon  the  earth  of  my  longing.  .  . 

He  opened  his  eyes.  Beside  him  lay  a  woman 
in  the  dark.  "Her  name  is  Dora,"  he  murmured, 
and  dreamed  on. 


Dora  has  formed  a  habit  of  going  to  bed  early. 

I  come  home.  She  pushes  up  from  her  armchair 
with  a  great  rustle  of  the  morning  paper  scattered 
from  her  lap.  She  brings  the  supper.  She  puts 
the  supper  away.  She  washes  the  dishes.  — I  sit 

<186> 


City  Block 

with  my  fingers  weaving,  hearing  her  heavy  step 
and  the  bright  peal  of  the  dishes.  .  . 

She  goes  to  bed. 

I  do  not  inquire  too  deeply  why  she  goes  to  bed. 
When  she  is  gone,  I  shut  out  the  gas  and  I  light  a 
candle.  I  sit  very  still  .  .  long  .  .  looking  at  the 
candle. 

— You  are  fair.    You  are  My  Dora. 
Can  you  not  come  inside? 
Look!  I  burn  a  candle  for  you: 
The  room  is  a  dark  jewel: 
Can  you  not  come  in? 

So  gaily  you  walk,  you  beside  me  walking. 
And  we  do  not  walk  city  streets  and  parks. 
Lo!  we  walk  within  ourselves. 

— Look!  I  burn  a  candle  in  the  room: 
The  room  is  a  dark  jewel: 
Won't  you  come  in? 
We  shall  look  at  the  flame  as  with  one  pair 

of  eyes. 
We  shall  be  sitting,  not  in  the  room  of  a 

flat  ... 

We  sit  stilly  side  by  side,  hand  in  hand, 
Within  a  world  shut  like  a  jewel, 
Secret-warm  like  a  kiss, 
And  clear 
Like  this  fire  in  the  night. 


<187> 


City  Block 

At  last  I  am  sleepy,  half -hidden  in  dream.  I 
take  off  my  clothes.  And  Dora  in  the  bed  does  not 
disturb  me.  .  .  This  is  my  life.  Do  I  hear  that? 
Godfrey  Carber,  this  is  your  life. 

I  see  it  all  a  little  darkly  aslant  from  my  eyes, 
like  a  light  in  my  brain,  like  a  light  just  caught 
by  my  own  eye's  corner:  I  can't  catch  it  nearer  to 
the  front.  If  I  turn  my  head,  however  slyly,  it 
moves  alike.  If  I  spin,  it  spins.  It  has  to  remain 
so  ever,  aslant  and  aloof  .  .  my  life.  Words  thrown 
at  it  bound  vaguely  back  into  my  knowing:  with 
'I  have  been  there'  glowing  like  fire  upon  them: 
little  glowing  balls  cast  up  from  a  black  sea. 

There  are  two  kinds  of  Quiet.  There  is  the  quiet 
of  Dora  in  bed.  There  is  the  quiet  of  the  noisy 
streets  that  I  walk  with  My  Dora.  After  school- 
hours,  after  supper  often.  Naught  breaks  into  the 
quiet  of  the  streets.  Naught  breaks  into  the  quiet 
of  Dora  sleeping  save  very  rarely,  when  Dora  gets 
up  from  bed:  thrusts  her  head  into  my  gem-like 
room,  "It  is  late,  dear."  That  is  now  so  rare  it  is 
altogether  of  the  past.  Sometimes,  Dora  groans 
in  bed :  in  her  sleep  or  awake  .  .  I  do  not  know.  For 
if  I  am  quiet,  the  groan  passes,  all  is  good. 

My  Dora  lives  in  quiet  .  .  in  the  two  quiets. 

My  Dora  speaks  in  quiet. 

One  time,  the  quiet  of  the  noisy  streets  .  .  a 
mottled  quiet  grained  like  marble,  hard  so  too,  hard 
to  break  .  .  was  broken.  A  large  man  loomed.  He 
had  glimpsed  My  Dora  in  the  crash  of  an  elevated 
train  that  must  after  all  have  made  a  rift  in  the 

<188> 


City  Block 

day's  stillness,  since  the  large  man  saw  her.  He 
spoke  to  me. 

"I  have  seen  her.    Loveliness,"  he  said. 

He  was  gentle,  not  a  bad  sort.  Sad  at  my  splen 
dor,  empty  of  splendor  himself.  I  shook  him  off 
with  ease.  Later,  once,  he  came  to  me  in  the  Park. 
It  rained.  He  spoke  to  me.  He  was  dry  and  hot 
like  crackling  twigs  in  flame,  under  the  drench  of 
his  clothes.  He  spoke  to  me.  He  was  still  gentler, 
sadder  at  my  splendor  and  his  lack.  Poor  boy! 
he  had  invented  a  sort  of  splendor  of  his  own.  It 
did  not  work.  As  if  one  could  make  glory!  He 
was  sad.  I  shook  him  off  with  ease.  But  his  face 
high  above  mine  looked  at  me  long  that  day,  break 
ing  into  the  quiet  of  My  Dora  and  myself  who 
moved  like  perfumed  breath  through  the  wet  world. 

No  other  break  in  the  Quiet  where  My  Dora 
blooms  like  a  rose  ever  young.  .  .  I  must  say  it: 
the  wife  behaves  very  well.  She  leaves  us  alone! 
But  she  is  cruel  nonetheless.  For  doesn't  she  oust 
My  Dora  from  our  home:  during  mealtimes 
chiefly?  when  I  am  sick  chiefly?  when  she  nurses 
me.  Dora  must  get  to  bed  and  the  gaslight  which 
is  her  friend  must  be  shut  down  .  .  a  candle  burns  .  . 
ere  My  Dora  comes  into  the  room. 

Of  course,  I  must  have  Dora  to  feed  me,  to  mend 
my  clothes  and  buy  me  a  new  suit  when  I  need  it : 
and  send  me  to  have  my  hair  cut  (my  hair  grows  so 
fast  even  if  it  is  growing  white)  :  to  tell  me  that  the 
examination  papers  must  be  marked  by  tomorrow: 
to  give  me  a  plaster  when  my  neuralgia  hurts.  It 

<189> 


City  Block 

is  too  bad.  It  is  as  I  have  ever  known,  and  as  I 
tell  my  girls :  life  is  not  perfect.  We  must  put  up 
with  life.  And  we  must  not  complain.  God  has 
given  us  sleep,  full  of  dream :  silence,  full  of  dream : 
night  that  is  Dream.  So  we  must  not  complain. 
And  God  has  given  us  fire  that  is  His  breath:  so 
that  we  may  be  warm  and  may  see  clear :  Fire  that 
burns  away  all  doubt,  all  imperfection  .  .  leaving 
the  Real.  God  has  given  us  Dream  that  is  night 
and  that  is  fire. 

— But,  My  Dora,  though  you  are  ever  young 
like  a  rose  just  blooming,  you  grow.  You  grow! 
It  is  your  love  for  me  that  boldens  you.  You 
invade  my  house.  Even  at  mealtimes  now,  you  are 
there.  You  eat  of  the  food  she  sets  upon  the  table. 
And  after  supper,  ere  the  candle  burns,  your  hand 
lies  in  mine,  and  your  tawny  hair  gleams  at  my 
side. 

Dora's  step  is  heavier  and  more  slow.  It  takes 
her  longer  to  clear  the  table,  longer  to  wash  the 
dishes. . .  A  great  crash !  — a  dish  is  broken.  I  leave 
you,  My  Dora,  a  moment :  your  white  hand  in  mine, 
at  that  hideous  noise,  is  gone.  I  stand  in  wrath  at 
the  kitchen  door. 

"What  a  noise!"    I  am  severe. 

She  winces  from  my  eyes.  Her  heavy  dull  face 
winces  and  is  white.  She  will  be  careful  not  to 
break  more  dishes.  At  least  while  My  Dora  and  I 
are  near  to  be  disturbed. 

And  although  she  goes  to  bed  early,  earlier  ever, 
it  takes  more  time  ere  her  shuffling,  ere  the  creaking 

<190> 


City  Block 

die  down:  ere  there  is  silence  in  the  distant  bed 
room.  .  .  It  is  good  in  a  way  that  she  groans  more 
often  in  her  sleep.  For  so,  we  have  got  used  to 
the  groans.  They  do  not  hurt  us  more.  They  do 
not  break  our  Quiet.  They  have  become  like  the 
noise  of  the  noisy  street  .  .  a  part  of  our  Quiet. 


She  saw  him  so  clearly :  what  a  pity  that  she  had 
pain  more  and  more.  For  pain  made  her  seeing 
him  hard.  Lovable  child,  all  swept  in  the  lilt  of 
his  own  dream :  he  was  not  one  to  grapple  with  life. 
His  was  the  sweeter  gift  of  being  clasped  himself, 
of  being  drawn  beyond.  She  understood  what  must 
be  the  stuff  of  his  dream,  since  she  knew  the  stuff 
of  his  life:  his  pale  far  eyes,  his  faintly  trilling 
fingers,  his  hair  like  silk.  And  the  little  feet  pat 
tering  away  and  the  thin  nose  scenting  what  wide 
adventure!  Such  he,  such  his  dream.  What  he 
wanted  of  a  wife  was  ornament  and  a  nurse.  After 
the  child's  death  .  .  quite  long  after  .  .  his  eyes  had 
looked  at  her  so  that  she  knew  she  had  failed  sud 
denly  of  the  first  part  of  his  need.  No  ornament 
more.  She  could  still  be  nurse. 

But  the  pain  grows  bitter,  her  strength  ebbs. 
Dora  was  forced  to  a  doctor.  — When  I  am  awake 
I  can  hold  myself  still.  But  what  if  I  should  groan 
once  in  my  sleep?  And  he  hear  it!  That  never! 
How  it  would  upset  him! 

The  doctor  studied  her  flesh.    As  she  lay  before 


City  Block 

him  with  her  thoughts  so  far  from  his  studying  eye 
and  ear,  from  his  studying  hands,  her  flesh  was 
unreal  to  her.  Her  thoughts  must  be  hidden  else 
where  than  in  her  flesh :  or  he  had  touched  them  too. 

"An  operation  only,"  said  the  doctor.  "No  other 
chance.  This  is  not  new.  Surely  some  other  doc 
tor  ...  ?" 

"There  has  been  no  other  doctor." 

"How  long  since  the  pain?" 

"Years!" 

He  eyed  her  with  wonder,  with  anger:  calmly 
at  last.  "I'll  consult  with  your  husband,"  he  said 
in  a  dry  voice. 

Dora's  cry:  "No!  Not  that!" 

"Not  that?  .  .  Why? .  .  Why  not  that?" 

She  stood,  her  pain  lost  in  panic.  Her  fists  and 
her  voice  went  up. 

"I  don't  have  to  explain.  What  I  say  is  enough. 
Mr  Carber  must  know  nothing  of  all  this.  That 
is  all." 

".  .  .  And  the  operation?" 

"Useless.  .  .  Doctor,  how  much  do  I  owe  you?" 


The  heyday  of  My  Dora !  You  do  not  leave  me 
more.  We  are  one  now,  you  and  I. 

— There  were  places  .  .  chill  empty  places  .  .  how 

can  I  make  that  clear?  like  little  rooms  cut  off  from 

the  light  and  the  warm,  where  you  could  not  enter. 

A  grey  partition,  so  thin  and  yet  so  hard,  cut 

<192> 


City  Block 

them  off:  grey  cold  and  blind.  And  part  of  my 
life  I  had  to  live  in  them! 

— No  more!  No  more  .  .  in  this  heyday  of  our 
love.  Then  the  thought  that  it  is  Noon  .  .  Noon 
always  .  .  leaves  me  too.  The  thought  was  but  a 
flash  like  a  sudden  cloud  over  high  sun.  When 
the  sun  is  free,  there  is  no  flash  and  there  need  be 
no  thinking.  I  can  not  tell,  save  in  the  little  flaws 
of  our  noon,  that  it  is  Noon.  I  cannot  tell,  save 
in  the  little  rifts  of  running  shadow,  how  I  am 
happy. 

"Come  Godfrey.  Breakfast  is  ready  in  ten 
minutes." 

It  is  a  voice.  Beneath  it,  if  I  looked,  I  might 
see  a  heavy  body:  grey  unluminous  strangeness 
that  walks  about  getting  breakfast  and  that  has  a 
voice  calling  me  to  eat.  Her  chair  rattles  as  she 
draws  closer,  breakfasting  across  my  table.  That 
noise,  like  her  sudden  calls  of  pain  in  the  night, 
does  not  harm  our  Quiet. 

— My  Dora 
Yesterday 

There  was  a  voice  in  the  sky 
Fluttering  like  a  banner  across  the  Block. 
All  gold  .  , 
All  gay  .  . 
Against  the  Spring  blue  sky. 

— I  have  had  enough  to  eat.     I  go  down  the 
stairs.    We  walk  the  quiet  street. 
<193> 


City  Block 

—My  Dora 

That  banner  voice 

Across  the  street 

Stood  at  a  cross 

Upon  our  azure  path. 

Gold  blue,  My  Dora,  is  our  way 

Under  the  whispering  sky. 

— The  children  sit  in  their  benches.  Above  the 
wood,  their  eyes  and  their  hair  rise  free:  and  rise 
toward  me.  We  have  much  fun.  There  are  lessons 
of  course.  But  the  look  of  their  eyes  is  blue,  and 
the  shine  of  their  hair  is  gold.  We  flow  together. 
My  Dora  is  not  there.  She  is  not  jealous  of  my 
hours  of  class.  My  children  are  not  jealous  of  My 
'Dora.  At  the  last  gong,  at  the  door's  wide  thrust, 
within  the  bare  harsh  quiet  of  the  street,  there  she 
is;  there  is  My  Dora! 

We  walk.  Seldom  I  touch  her.  I  feel  her  feet 
beside  my  feet.  I  feel  her  hand  beside  my  hand. 
I  feel  her  eyes  glowingly  near  my  own.  W^e  are 
one  height.  But  she  is  fairer  to  see.  And  I  am 
rather  rough  .  .  a  big  dark  man  with  black  beard 
and  black  eyes  against  her.  She  loves  me  so.  I 
am  very  big.  She  is  slight  and  frail.  Yet  we  are 
of  one  height  from  our  feet  to  our  hair. 

We  walk.  Seldom  words.  But  her  voice  is  ever 
there.  It  is  golden  like  a  daffodil  and  frail  so, 
faintly  a-wave  on  its  shrill  green  stem.  The  street 
is  quiet  .  .  no  matter  where  .  .  so  that  her  voice  is 
high  and  yet  is  still. 

<194> 


City  Block 

— How  quiet  is  the  city!  It  is  full  of  still  houses, 
still  men  and  quiet  women.  The  cars  glide  silent: 
on  the  cobblestones  as  on  plush  beat  the  mute 
hoofs  of  horses,  the  muffled  wheels  of  carts.  Silent 
city.  Only  the  children  trill  in  it:  a  low  vibrance 
like  that  of  early  springtime  flowers  .  .  anemone, 
hypatica,  violet,  cinquefoil  in  a  waking  field. 

— How  soft  is  the  city!  Houses  soft  and  men 
and  women  soft  (O  the  soft  hands  of  the  men,  the 
soft  eyes  of  the  women!).  The  cars  move  like 
rubber  balls  bouncing  on  soft  steel  tracks.  Only 
the  children  are  a  little  hard :  like  the  chirp  of  little 
hungry  birds,  demanding,  hungering  .  .  hard.  My 
Dora's  love  rises  above  the  soft  still  town  like  a 
singing  tree. 

— What  do  you  think?  Should  we  go  back  to 
supper  ? 

We  go  back.  Up  the  dark  stairs,  My  Dora  fades 
for  she  always  lets  me  go  first;  push  the  darkness,, 
push  the  door  open  for  her.  Dora  is  at  the  thresh 
old.  I  nod.  I  go  in  first.  My  Dora  comes  in 
with  me. 

She  brings  us  our  supper.  Sometimes  she  says 
a  few  words. 

"Did  you  see,  dear,  in  the  paper " 

"You  know  I  never  read  the  paper " 

"O  yes.  But  this.  About  the  raise  of  the  teach- 
ers- 

"When  I  gave  you  my  check,  you  would  have 
known."  .  .  . 

<195> 


City  Block 

She  cooks  our  food.  She  washes  the  remains 
of  our  food.  She  prepares  our  bed.  She  leaves  us 
two  alone.  And  the  room  of  our  world  has  now 
no  hard  partitions!  It  is  all  one:  it  is  all  flushed 
with  the  sun  and  the  light.  Come,  My  Dora.  All 
is  here  for  us  to  live  together. 


So  the  day  and  the  year  and  the  years. 

There  are  days  of  rain  and  of  snow.  There  are 
days  of  heat  and  of  cold.  — Your  sun  shines  for 
ever.  If  my  eyes  are  shut,  still  it  shines.  If  my 
body  is  in  pain,  still  you  shine !  She  has  nursed  me, 
fed  me  in  bed.  You  are  there!  I  am  healed.  We 
walk  again  .  .  under  the  endless  sun  that  has  no 
eyelids  and  that  has  no  sleep,  that  knows  no  season. 

.  .  .  Year  and  year  and  years. 

3 

Godfrey  Carber's  wife  lies  beaten  in  bed.  She  is 
sick.  She  can  no  longer  move.  She  is  beaten. 

She  lies  .  .  she  lies.  Scraps  of  food  to  feed  him 
he  finds.  He  finds  Chaos. 

The  chaos  presses  against  him :  bites  him,  pushes 
him,  eats  him  all  up.  The  chaos  makes  the  little 
man  roam  with  eyes  distressed.  "A  doctor  I  a 
doctor !" 

It  is  night.  He  sits  in  the  room.  Room  that  is  a 
jewel  too  dark. 

<196> 


City  Block 

— You  are  the  dawn  of  Spring 
Dawning  forever 

.  .  faintly. 

— Your  hair  coils  like  June. 
Your  hands  flower  my  life 
Like  a  June  field  dawning 

.  .  faintly. 

— Your  voice 

Above  the  still  world 
Rises,  a  flower. 
You  in  silence  .  .  . 
You  My  Dora 

.  .  faintly. 

...  A  jewel,  the  room,  too  dark.  He  sits  at 
the  table  with  the  untouched  food  that  he  has  rum 
maged  from  the  cupboard.  He  lights  another 
candle.  Yet  it  is  too  dark. 

He  sits  in  his  room  .  .  frail  man  with  hands  that 
twitch  and  a  brow  heavy  with  cloud  of  grey  silk 
hair.  The  doctor  comes  in  from  the  bedroom.  The 
doctor  watches  him.  He  prods  him  at  last  from 
across  the  table,  with  words. 

"You  must  have  courage,  Mr  Carber.  Of  course, 
you  have  expected  this." 

Carber  looks  up.  His  eyes,  bewildered,  turn 
about  the  room. 

"Do  you  mean,"  come  the  doctor's  words,  "do 
you  mean  you  haven't  known?" 

<  197  > 


City  Block 

Carber's  dim  eyes  wander. 

"Look  here,  man!  Look  here!  Hasn't  your 
wife  had  a  doctor  before  me?  Am  I  the  first?  It 
isn't  possible.  Why,  this  must  be  fifteen  years 
old.  Why,  this  is  the  end!" 

Godfrey  Carber's  eyes  are  fixed  on  the  sharp 
man's  eyes.  They  do  not  wander.  They  see  him 
turn  and  pass  away  through  the  door.  They  see 
his  footsteps  .  .  clouded  in  what?  in  anger!  .  .  lead 
down  to  the  street. 

Godfrey  Carber  got  up.  In  each  hand  he  holds 
a  candle.  He  walks  into  the  dark  bedroom. 

She  lies  gaunt  and  heavy.  The  light  dances  in 
a  leaden  face.  Her  eyes  are  shut.  Breath  breaks 
from  blue  lips  like  a  slow  moaning  sea  breaking 
upon  a  rock.  A  hand,  heavy  knotted,  jerks  on  the 
coverlet  like  a  fish  dry  on  earth,  almost  dead. 

He  places  the  candles  on  the  table  near  her  head. 
He  stands. 

"Dora." 

Her  hand  that  has  gasped  is  still.  Only  the 
candles  move.  Only  her  breath  beats  moaning. 

The  two  Doras  died,  before  the  candles  were 
done. 


<198> 


TEN 

— AND   CHAEITY 


A    MAN  sat  dangling  a  cap  between  his  legs 
on  the  top  step  of  a  stoop.    Behind  him  the 
open  door  into  the  house.     He  waited,  let 
the  noisy  Block  lift  in  waves  to  his  eyes. 

It  was  a  part  of  town  that  he  came  to,  seldom. 

"I  wonder,"  he  thought,  "has  she  been  living 
here  long?" 

His  mind  moved  back  to  the  letter  he  had  written 
her,  to  the  restaurant  to  which  he  was  going  to 
take  her.  Before  ringing  the  bell,  he  had  explored 
the  avenues  a  bit  for  a  suitable  place.  He  did  not 
think  really  of  her,  conjure  her  up  at  all,  compose 
from  questions  in  his  mind  a  picture.  He  sat  and 
let  the  street  .  .  it  was  high  Spring  .  .  fling  blos 
soms  of  sound  and  color  against  him. 

Through  the  brown  house  moved  a  small  girl 
downward.  She  felt  for  dark  steps  with  her  toes : 
with  her  hands,  adjusted  again  the  new  cheap-made 
flowers  she  had  trimmed  to  the  old  hat — for  the 
Spring. 

The  man  felt  a  moving  through  the  hall.  He 
got  up  and  turned.  A  girl  on  the  vestibule  step 
above  him.  She  stared  at  him,  without  comfort. 

"So  it's  you — Lucy  Dargent?" 

She  nodded  with  blue  excited  eyes. 
<201> 


City  Block 

"Glad  to  know  you,"  he  held  out  a  slender  hand. 
He  saw  her  clear,  she  was  plain.  She  touched  his 
hand  with  a  moist  little  paw.  She  did  not  sense 
him. 

"Well:  ready  for  dinner?" 

They  went  down  into  the  Block.  It  leaped 
above  them,  color  and  swung  sound:  it  columned 
into  eddies  that  made  them  corks.  Then  they  set 
tled,  walking,  under  the  Block.  Both  had  the  sense 
of  pushing  against  a  palpable  substance. 

In  the  restaurant  it  was  still. 

He  ordered  food. 

He  put  away  the  card.  In  the  stillness,  they 
looked  at  each  other. 

The  girl  saw  nothing.  She  leaned  on  nothing. 
She  was  unafraid  of  stillness  but  she  needed 
words  to  lean  on. 

"You  haven't  told  me  a  thing,"  she  said,  "  'cept 
that  you  knew  my  mother." 

"I  knew  her  very  well .  .  before  you  were  born." 

"Not  after?" 

"No— not  after." 

She  saw  him  now  a  bit,  as  if  he  were  rising  from 
his  words.  He  was  young  to  her,  very  jolly,  he 
had  nice  teeth.  She  liked  the  tightness  of  his  jacket. 

"Did  you — like  my  mother?"  she  asked. 

He  laughed.    "Worse  than  that!    I  loved  her." 

Then  she  laughed  also.  "Loved  her!"  She  was 
mocking. 

"Why  not?  Wasn't  it  possible  to  love  your 
mother?" 

<202> 


City  Block 

She  shook  her  head.  Then  she  blushed.  The 
blush  was  strange  on  her  coarse  dull  skin. 

"You're  so  different,"  she  said.  "Of  course,  Ma 
died  when  I  was  a  kid.  Twelve.  Five  years  ago. 
She  was  so  heavy  and  gloomy.  Not  like  you." 

"She  wasn't  that  sort  when  I  knew  her,  Lucy." 

The  girl's  silence  was  abrupt,  as  if  the  next  step 
in  words  had  been  deep  down — not  to  be  taken. 

He  felt  it.  He  let  her  remain  in  silence.  Now 
she  could  lean  on  that.  He  saw  what  she  was.  He 
took  what  she  was  bravely  to  himself.  And  when 
ever  a  new  point  told  upon  his  mind,  she  saw  him 
smile  and  throw  up  his  head  and  press  her  to  eat 
more. 

She  was  a  little  drab  body,  very  dun  save  her 
bright  eyes. 

He  felt  himself  there  too.  Against  this  crushed 
girlhood  his  resilient  self.  — I  am  thirty-eight,  I 
am  younger  and  fresher  than  she!  But  there  was 
a  hardness  still  in  her.  She  was  not  yet  pulp.  He 
hated  her  stupid  hat,  her  sticky  hair.  He  hated 
the  hard  starched  waist  she  wore.  He  hated  the 
narrow  skirt  that  crowded  her  legs.  She  was  a 
poor  little  girl,  dressed  in  lies,  lost  in  lies.  He  be 
gan  to  put  questions  to  her.  .  . 

"I've  been  at  the  one  store  ever  since  I  left  the 
Orphanage.  Two  years  and  over.  Yes.  Sure, 
it's  all  right.  What  do  you  expect?  Happy — ?" 

"These  two  years  behind  a  counter " 

"Who,  me?  Oh  no.  I  just  got  that  high  last 
December  during  the  rush.  Then  back  to  parcels." 

<203> 


City  Block 

"Well,  you've  been  beneath  one  roof.  .  .  And 
I've  been  wandering  through  seven  States." 

"I  don't  really  know  a  thing  about  you." 

She  was  trying  to  be  coquetish.  Drab  small 
coquette.  He  knew  he  must  not  let  her  try  to  flirt. 
It  would  be  too  drear  a  thing,  her  trying  to  smile 
from  fullness  like  a  woman. 

"I'll  tell  you  about  my  wanderings.    Should  I?" 

She  looked  at  him  wistfully,  pressing  a  piece  of 
eclair  against  her  lips.  She  wanted  other  knowl 
edge. 

"Have  you  ever  seen  especially  pretty  chairs  .  . 
or  bureaus  .  .  or  tables?" 

She  knit  her  brow  and  looked  diagonally  up, 
then  she  shook  her  head. 

"Well,  there  are  such  things.  Chairs  that  beside 
being  good  to  sit  on  are  good  to  look  at :  tables  that 
one  can  use  and  also  enjoy.  I  make  'em." 

"Who,  you?" 

There  was  no  doubt,  she  was  stupid.  His  art 
interested  her  not  at  all. 

"Did  you  ever  hear  of  a  man  who  did  such 
things?" 

"Who,  you?"  she  said. 

"Well,  I  do.  And  I  earn  lots  of  money  by  it. 
I  saved  up  a  lot  of  money  and  two  years  ago  I  left 
New  York  and  went  South." 

"What  for,  if  you  were  making  decent  money?" 

He  took  her  question,  poised  it,  decided  to  laugh 
with  it.  He  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  laughing. 

<204> 


City  Block 

She  saw  his  shoulders  go  up  and  down;  she  was 
pleased  that  he  laughed. 

He  told  her  about  the  South:  places  where  there 
are  only  negroes  who  sing  in  the  hot  dark:  about 
the  Indians  glowing  in  hard  Western  deserts.  He 
found  she  was  scarce  listening  to  his  words. 

"Waiter,  how  much?" 

From  his  irritation,  he  looked  at  her  again.  It 
came  to  him  that  she  was  having  what  she  would 
call  a  'good  time.'  She  was  doing  her  best.  This 
knowledge  came  to  him  also.  It  brought  pain.  So 
he  smiled. 

Out  of  his  very  broad  smile  she  settled  in  her 
chair  and  kicked  out  her  feet  and  gave  a  smile  to 
him.  He  got  up,  shaking  his  trowsers  into  place. 
'He  was  tall,  his  body  spoke  with  articulate  rhyth 
mic  muscles.  Blond  hair  lay  low  on  his  forehead 
like  a  boy's  .  .  a  boy's  forehead. 

"Let's  get  out  of  here,  eh?    Where'll  we  go?" 

She  reached  for  her  clumsy  blue  coat  and  said 
nothing. 

"What  would  you  like  to  do?" 

Her  face  was  blank.  He  studied  it.  It  was  not 
blank  when  he  looked  at  it  straight.  Words,  sim 
ply,  did  not  touch  it.  But  it  was  not  blank. 

"How's  your  room,"  he  asked,  finding  her  still 
silent.  "Could  we  go  there  and  talk?" 

"Where,  mine? . .  Sure,"  was  her  answer.  "Why 
not?"  .  .  . 

The  Block  was  less  like  a  sea:  a  swollen  river  it 
was,  running  away.     He  walked  beside  this  girl: 
<205> 


City  Block 

he  tried  to  feel  how  she  was  there,  who  she  was :  he 
failed.  The  world  had  heavy  eyes :  it  was  a  woman 
suddenly  who  told  stories  to  her  children,  to  each 
child  a  story  suggested  by  the  last:  a  woman  who 
on  warm  evenings  was  weary.  The  world  was  a 
woman  who  sweated  and  wore  no  perfume.  He 
walked  beside  this  girl  and  tried  to  see  her.  But 
the  world  was  suddenly  very  old  and  dumb. 

He  followed  her  upstairs:  up  two,  three,  four 
long  flights.  A  wheezy  brownstone  house,  three 
houses  in  a  row  elbowed  by  tenements :  once  people 
had  lived  in  them:  now  they  were  old  and  cruel, 
they  lived  on  people. 

He  stood  in  her  door  and  struck  a  match.  She 
took  it,  went  into  dark,  lit  the  lamp.  His  heart 
hurt  as  the  room  in  which  she  lived  flared  to  his 
eyes. 

A  bare  little  room.  Airless,  hot — stiff  little 
room.  A  small  bed  half  filled  it.  There  was  a 
bureau  with  a  strip  of  oil-cloth,  a  statue,  chipped,  of 
a  Shepherdess,  a  glass  full  of  hair-pins,  a  brush,  a 
Bible.  Upon  the  Bible,  he  read  The  Hope  Orphan 
age.  It  looked  like  a  new  Bible.  He  guessed, 
when  she  was  ready  to  go  into  the  world,  they  had 
given  her  that  Bible.  In  a  corner  was  a  chair,  and 
a  towel-rack.  Behind  a  drapery  of  acid  green,  her 
clothes  and  a  small  trunk. 

"You  sit  in  the  chair,"  she  told  him. 

His  heart  took  the  room  and  this  girl  and  tried 
to  fit  them  with  himself.  He  wondered  whose  was 
the  lie:  what  did  he  have  to  do  with  this  lie  he  felt 

<  206  > 


City  Block 

there?  His  heart  went  knocking  about  the  four 
walls  of  the  room  like  a  huge  grey  moth ;  trying  to 
find  where  to  get  out:  and  about  the  rotten  soft 
wood  floor  and  the  ceiling.  Then  it  stopped  in 
front  of  the  starched  waist  of  Lucy,  it  looked  up 
ward  at  her  throat.  His  heart  went  knocking  about 
this  girl,  now,  trying  to  get  in.  .  . 

The  shade  was  up,  the  street  was  a  pulse  upon 
Lucy  and  the  man  in  the  lamp-blotched  dark.  He 
began  to  talk.  He  said: 

"You  must  let  me  tell  you  about  your  mother, 
Lucy.  You  were  only  twelve  when  she  died,  so 
you  say  yourself.  Your  Ma  had  lots  of  words  per 
haps,  but  she  wasn't  a  woman  to  let  on  really  about 
herself.  You  scarcely  knew  her,  I  imagine.  Let 
me  tell  you  about  her." 

"Go  'way  back  then,"  said  Lucy  listlessly. 
"What  do  you  mean?" 

She  bent  forward.  She  sat  on  the  bed  stiffly, 
as  far  from  him  as  she  could.  One  hand  at  her 
side,  half  behind  her,  pressed  a  pillow. 
"Before  she  was  married,  I  mean." 
"O  sure."  He  felt  a  new  responsiveness.  He 
was  glad,  though  he  could  not  understand  it.  "In 
those  days,  your  mother  .  .  well,  she  was  big  of 
course.  But  she  was  strong,  wonderful  strong. 
She  wasn't  slow.  She  was  sure,  that's  all.  She 
took  her  time:  whatever  'twas  .  .  moving  across 
the  room  or  getting  the  man  she  was  after." 

Lucy  giggled.    Her  hands  waved  vaguely  in  her 
lap. 

<207> 


City  Block 

"Was  she  after  my  Dad?" 

"O  he  loved  her.  But  that's  not  what  counted 
with  your  Ma.  Don't  you  think  it!  What  counted 
was  that  she  wanted  him.  She  got  him." 

"He  was  only  twenty,"  Lucy  beamed. 

"O  you  know  that?" 

She  folded  her  hands  and  looked  at  them. 

"What  else  do  you  know?" 

"O  nothing.  Just,  Ma  told  me  once:  'Your  Pa 
wasn't  even  a  man,  God  damn  him.  When  he 
took  me,  he  was  twenty.' ' 

"Your  Ma  was  right,  girl.    She  was  a  fine  strong 


woman." 


Lucy  settled  back  upon  her  pillow.  Her  head 
was  propped  against  the  bar  of  the  bed.  He  was 
glad.  She  seemed  coming  to  ease.  He  went  on 
bravely. 

He  spoke  about  the  virtue,  the  suffering  calm 
virtue,  the  strong  character  of  Lucy's  mother. 
Lucy  leaned  back,  feeling  the  iron  bar  gratefully 
against  her  neck.  She  picked  at  a  nail,  at  a 
thread:  she  was  engrossed  in  her  hands.  He  spoke, 
not  letting  her  mood  nor  his  awareness  of  it  come 
against  his  words.  He  spoke  orderedly.  He  did 
not  mention  Mrs  Dargent's  husband.  He  was 
there,  merely  behind  what  he  said  like  a  black  foil 
for  her  whiteness. 

Then  he  stopped.  The  street  was  no  longer  a 
pulse,  it  was  obtrusive.  It  lay  out  there,  mocking 
his  words.  He  got  up  impetuously,  pulled  down 
the  window,  pulled  down  the  shade.  He  looked  at 

<208> 


City  Block 

Lucy.  Standing  over  her,  he  looked  at  her,  and 
out  of  his  look  he  saw  her  dim  small  face  once  more 
alive :  saw  the  eyes  brighten. 

He  smiled.  He  had  been  so  serious  speaking  of 
her  mother.  Then,  out  of  his  smile,  she  said : 

"O,  to  hell  with  Mother.  .  .  Did  you  know — 
Dad?" 

He  nodded. 

"Tell  me  everything  about  him!" 

He  stood  still. 

"What  did  your  Mother  tell  you  about  him?" 

"All  she  said  mostly  was  'God  damn  him!' ' 
She  laughed. 

-Well " 

"Well,  did  God  damn  him  ...  ?" 

He  turned  about  and  parting  the  shade  looked 
out  into  the  street.  He  laughed.  Then  he  faced 
her  again. 

"You  judge,"  he  said. 

She  curled  her  feet  under  her  upon  the  bed.  She 
was  preparing  for  delight.  Sudden,  her  face  was. 
serious.  She  pulled  out  her  feet:  she  took  off  her 
shoes  .  .  worn  dingy  shoes.  They  dropped  to  the 
floor. 

"One  thing  the  old  woman  downstairs  does  give 
you  hell  for — and  that's  shoes  on  the  bed."  Her 
head  was  forward  from  the  iron  bar.  "Go  on." 

He  stood  still.    "Jack "  he  stopped.    "You 

know  of  course  what  his  name  was?" 

"Jack." 

He  nodded.    "I've  got  to  call  him  Jack,  you  see. 
<209> 


City  Block 

Do  you  mind?    I  can't  be  always  remembering  to 
say  *y°ur  father.' ' 

He  smiled  gaily.  He  saw  her  hands  wriggle. 
"Jack "  she  tasted  the  word. 

"Jack  was  a  scoundrel." 

She  settled  back,  relaxed,  curled  up,  oblivious 
of  her  hands  that  had  a  way  of  wriggling,  and  of 
stockinged  feet  half  hidden  by  her  dress.  Through 
a  hole,  a  toe  showed.  He  saw  it  very  white.  He 
went  on: 

"But  first  .  .  let's  admit  it  .  .  first,  Jack  was  a 
boy.  Rather  wild,  dreamy.  Rather  decent,  though. 
Before  he  was  a  scoundrel.  Always  played  fair,  I 
believe." 

"You  liked  him?" 

"Then  Leila  comes  along.  Jack  was  twenty. 
Leila  was  twenty-six." 

"Jack  was — "  he  looked  at  her,  "well  Jack  was 
an  artist  too  in  his  way.  Full  of  dreamy  stories. 
Full  of  play.  He  didn't  have  any  mother  or  father." 
Her  eyes  warmed  and  grew  larger.  "And  Leila 
was  big  and  soothing  .  .  sort  of  capacious.  He  saw 
a  lot  of  her.  He  thought  a  lot  of  her  too.  You 
couldn't  be  lonely,  I  suppose,  with  her  around. 
He'd  been  knocking  about  a  good  deal,  for  a  lad 
his  age.  One  gets  lonely,  knocking  about.  Leila 
seemed  to  stand  for  all  sorts  of  things  he  had  always 
heard  tell  of,  seen  in  the  eyes  and  smiles  of  other 
folk.  Home:  being  taken  care  of:  quiet:  under 
standing.  She  was  so  splendidly  strong!  she  was — 
I'll  tell  you  what  she  sometimes  reminded  him  of. 

<210> 


City  Block 

That'll  show  you.  Jack  loved  music.  In  a  cafe 
down  on  Third  Avenue,  there  was  a  German  lad 
who  played  the  'cello.  You  don't  know  what's  a 
'cello?  Well,  it's  a  great  big  fiddle,  and  it  makes  a 
mellow  music  soft  and  quiet  and  vibrating  right 
down  to  your  heart.  Jack  said  to  Leila:  'Leila, 
you're  great  big  and  you're  deep,  just  like  that 
'cello.'  Then  they  got  married. 

".  .  .  He  was  a  scoundrel  to  do  it,  Lucy.  Take 
it  from  me.  He'd  better  have  looked  twice  into 
his  heart,  seen  what  was  there:  and  thought  less 
about  big  fiddles.  .  .  I  knew  what  it  was  from  the 
start.  It  was  hell.  It  was  not  Leila's  fault.  Lucy, 
I'll  tell  you  a  secret.  It  wasn't  his  fault,  neither." 

"It  wasn't  nobody's  fault?" 

"Nothing,  perhaps,  is  as  much  anyone's  fault  as 
you'd  suppose."  He  saw  her  look  toward  her  Bible. 
"Why  not  God's  fault,"  he  exclaimed  gaily.  "Let's 
have  it  that  way.  God's  fault,  eh? ...  God's  broad 
shoulders " 

She  was  beating  her  hands  together  joyously. 

"I'll  tell  you  what  Jack  was  those  grand  days 
he  was  wed — "  He  found  to  his  surprise,  he  had 
been  speaking  standing.  He  drew  the  chair  a  little 
nearer  than  it  had  been  to  the  girl.  He  looked  at 
the  girl.  She  was  quiet.  He  felt  a  warmness  there 
against  the  heat  of  the  close  room,  to  which  it  was 
good  to  talk.  Unconsciously,  he  was  once  more  on 
his  feet.  .  . 

"I'll  tell  you.  When  I  was  South,  I  saw  one 
thing  that  I  shall  never  forget.  A  lovely  city  .  . 


City  Block 

a  Park  all  full  of  blossoming  trees  and  flowers,  and 
there,  right  in  all  that  Springtime,  five  black  men, 
dressed  in  stripes,  dragging  chains — convicts- 
sweeping  the  paths.  Think  of  it!  prisoners  among 
flowers.  I  don't  know  how  they  must  have  felt. 
I'm  sure  it  was  like  Jack  felt,  married.  Twenty 
he  was.  The  world  was  a  garden  at  Springtime. 
And  he  in  convict  stripes,  chained,  sweeping  paths. 

".  .  .  It  just  didn't  work  for  him,  Lucy.  There 
wasn't  anything  in  it  for  him.  He  felt  he  was  a 
pet,  no  more,  for  Leila.  When  he  saw  the  child 
a-coming  . .  that  was  you  . .  he  saw  nothing  but  bars 
and  chains  and  sweeping  of  paths  ahead.  She 
seemed  strong  enough  for  two.  He  lit  out." 

Lucy  watched  how,  lost  in  his  words,  the  man 
found  his  chair  silently  once  again:  not  knowing 
he  had  left  it.  She  watched,  lost  also  in  his  words. 
There  was  silence. 

The  man  emerged.    He  grew  aware  of  Lucy. 

"No  doubt,  girl,  Jack  was  a  scoundrel.  Or  say 
he  didn't  show  much  sense.  That's  worse.  He 
didn't  know  his  beating  it  was  going  to  break  her 
nerve.  He  was  her  golden  dreamy  fairy-tale-telling 
pet.  How  should  he  know  she  needed  that  .  . 
needed  her  pride  of  him  .  .  like  another  woman 
needs  love?  His  beating  it  smashed  her.  I  know 
what  sort  of  a  world  you  were  let  into,  girl  .  .  with 
a  fat  nagging  bitter  mother  to  give  you  her  breast, 
eh?  and  teach  you  that  the  sun  was  a  liar.  I  can 
guess,  Lucy — now.  Looking  at  you.  Jack  never 
guessed.  I'll  swear  it." 

<212> 


City  Block 

The  girl  was  silent.  But  no  more  relaxed.  She 
was  stiff  and  ugly  with  a  thought  in  her  heart.  "I 
hate  mother;"  she  said.  "I  am  glad  she  died.  .  . 
And  I  don't  blame — Jack."  The  ugliness  and 
stiffness,  with  the  last  words,  were  gone.  She  saw 
the  man:  they  smiled  each  with  the  other.  His 
smile  again  in  her  eyes,  warming  and  cooling  her 
body:  her  response,  casting  a  strange  loosing  spell 
through  the  limbs  and  lips  of  the  man. 

This  time  they  sat  very  long  in  silence. 

Again  the  need  in  him  of  speaking  aloud.  He 
had  no  sense  of  speaking  to  Lucy.  Lucy  did  not 
count.  He  did  not  really  watch  her,  although 
always  he  held  her  there,  since  he  began  his  story 
about  Jack.  There  was  a  sucking  space  in  the  close 
room,  it  made  the  room  big  with  shadows,  big  with 
spaces. 

He  said:  "Well,  God  did  damn  him." 

The  little  body  was  solid  and  hard  .  .  solid  pro 
test  before  him. 

"That's  not  so!" 

"Listen— 

"That's  not  so!" 

He  did  not  seem  aware  of  her  swift  movement 
against  him.  He  spoke  in  his  chair.  He  leaned 
forward  with  his  hands  clasped  at  his  knees.  He 
spoke  gently,  looking  just  beyond  his  hands. 

"Jack  had  a  gay  lark  for  six  months  or  so.  He 
went  to  Boston.  Then,  one  time  when  he  was  out 
of  a  job,  he  came  to.  He  found  he  was  in  love 
with  his  wife." 

<213> 


City  Block 

"How  do  you  know  that?"  came  stiff  words  from 
Lucy. 

They  did  not  budge  him :  "I  know." 

"Well,  I  don't  believe  it." 

He  lifted  his  head  and  looked  at  her. 

"Now  see  here,  little  girl.  That's  a  long  time 
ago  .  .  as  long  a  time  as  you  are.  But  I  know  Jack 
found  he  loved  her." 

Her  eyes  went  to  the  face  of  this  man,  touched 
him.  She  did  not  believe  what  she  heard  about  her 
father.  It  was  absurd  and  unfair  to  think  he  could 
ever,  having  known  her,  love  her  mother.  But  this 
man  was  talking  warm  words :  whatever  they  said, 
words  of  love,  words  of  stiflement  and  longing, 
there  in  his  face  was  a  glow  as  if  a  fire  suffused 
him :  within  his  eyes  she  could  feel  hidden  a  hunger 
of  flame,  needing  fuel.  What  did  it  matter,  the 
nonsense  he  spoke  of  her  father?  .  .  . 

"A  strange  thing  it  was,  girl,  and  I  don't  blame 
you  for  not  understanding.  He  found  he  loved 
her.  Why,  then,  didn't  he  go  back?  Going  back 
would  not  have  helped.  It  would  still  have  been 
the  stripes  and  chains  in  the  Springtime  Southern 
Garden.  He  loved  her,  but  he  loved  Springtime 
too,  I  guess.  Not  for  many  minutes,  I  bet,  did  he 
think  of  going  back." 

"He  never  did!" 

"He  never  did  go  back.  .  .  Back,  there  was  you: 
a  woman  turned  slattern,  eh  .  .  ugly,  bitter,  swollen 
with  hurt  pride.  Am  I  right?  You  in  her  hands. 
You  at  that  breast!  And  yonder,  the  God  damned 


City  Block 

scoundrel,  Jack — "  he  got  up,  "dancing  around  the 
world  like  a  sailing  ship  on  summer  waters:  dip 
ping,  skipping,  half -capsized  in  tall  winds : . .  empty 
as  hell." 

He  broke  through  the  cloud  of  his  thoughts: 
with  knitted  brow  he  stood  there  and  at  last  saw 
Lucy.  He  was  amazed  at  what  he  saw.  She  lay 
back,  quiet  and  eased,  upon  her  bed.  Her  hands 
were  open  at  her  knees.  She  was  smiling  at  him. 

A  rage  took  the  man.  He  needed  to  break  that 
smile. 

"You  should  hate  him,  Lucy!" 

She  was  smiling,  would  she  not  listen  to  his 
words?  He  uttered  them  sharp,  he  let  them  come 
cruel. 

"Look  at  your  self.  .  .  Thank  him!  You're  sev 
enteen.  Twelve  years  of  your  life,  how  did  you 
live  to  have  come  to  hate  your  mother?  How  did 
you  live?  In  the  black  basement  of  a  flat  where 
she  was  janitress,  eh?  O  I  know  that  much.  With 
a  fat  woman  in  tears  or  in  tantrums,  eh?" 

"She  was  quite  jolly  when  she  was  drunk."  The 
words  came  from  her  smiling  mouth:  they  seemed 
part  of  her  smile.  The  man  drew  in  his  breath. 

"And  then,  an  Orphan  Asylum:  a  number  that 
they  feed.  And  now  a  shopgirl:  a  number  that 
they  starve."  He  walked  up  and  down.  "By  God, 
child,"  he  said,  "I  don't  understand  you.  You 
ought  to  hate  your  father." 

"Do  you  hate  him?" 

"This  I  know:  God  damned  him." 
<215> 


City  Block 

Lucy  jumped  from  her  bed.  She  stood  under 
him,  white  with  anger. 

"That's  a  lie!"  she  screamed.  She  beat  her  fists 
against  him.  "That's  a  lie!" 

He  stood  unmoved. 

She  retreated  and  looked  at  him.  Once  more, 
she  smiled. 

She  went  back  to  her  nook  upon  the  bed.  She 
curled  up.  She  relaxed. 

"How  in  hell  would  you  know  if  God  had 
damned  him?  You  ain't  Jesus." 

He  came  a  little  closer,  to  feel  her  straight. 

"Father — he  was  beautiful?"  she  murmured. 
But  she  needed  no  answer.  She  knew.  Again, 
she  asked  him : 

"When  did  he— die?" 

"Did  your  mother  say  he  was  dead?" 

"No.    But  I- 

"What?" 

"Well,  he  is  dead.  I  know  that.  And  I  know 
he  ain't  in  hell." 

The  man  stood  very  quiet.  His  hands  trembled. 
His  eyes  fell  to  his  hands. 

"Lucy,"  he  said,  still  looking  at  his  hands,  "why 
do  you  know — your  Dad  is  dead?" 

She  was  a  face  stern  in  the  saying  of  joy.  She 
was  a  face  tempered  hard  in  faith :  resilient,  glow 
ing  she  was. 

She  said:  "Why  do  I  know?  Because  I  know 
that  he  died.  Because  after  mother  died,  five  years 

<216> 


City  Block 

ago,  he  would  have  looked  for  me  and  found  me. 
Because  only  mother " 

She  stopped.  He  was  afraid,  seeing  her  words 
stop,  that  she  would  find  his  eyes.  He  seemed  to 
feel  her  face  a  little  whiter  already,  a  little  less  hard, 
less  a-glow :  as  if  there  was  that  in  his  eyes,  moving 
toward  hers,  would  break  her. 

He  smiled.  He  felt  a  locking  wrench  in  the  side 
muscles  of  his  throat. 

Very  quickly  he  began,  very  slowly  he  said: 
"Well,  your  Dad — he  died  some  time  ago,  Lucy." 

Then,  with  this  fending  his  naked  eyes,  he  dared 
-to  look  at  her.  As  before,  she  was  smiling.  He 
dared  to  look  at  her  smile. 


She  smiled.  She  was  a  smile  upon  the  bed:  re 
laxed,  curled-up,  with  hands  limp  and  open,  with 
stockinged  feet  and  a  toe  white  against  the  black 
of  her  stocking.  He  dared  to  look  at  her  smile. 

"It's  your  clothes  are  horrible,"  he  said.  "That 
frightful  waist!"  His  heart  paled  at  his  words. 
Then  he  felt  them  again.  Again.  They  were  true 
words. 

Lucy  wept.  She  did  not  hide  her  face.  The 
tears  fell  down  her  cheeks  into  her  open  mouth. 
She  was  not  tense  with  her  crying.  Her  eyes  were 
not  red. 

"You  are  different  from  your  clothes,"  he  said. 
"They  lie.  You  aren't  so  ugly.  I  know  now  they 
lie." 

<217> 


City  Block 

She  stood.  His  breath  was  a  shuttle  going  up 
and  down  against  his  throat,  as  he  watched  her 
standing. 

She  stood  straight.  Her  face  was  stained  with 
her  tears.  Her  hands  were  suddenly  quick  with  a 
keen  thinking:  passionate  they  were  with  her  think 
ing.  She  undid  her  waist,  she  flung  it  off.  She  was 
corsetless.  She  stood  uncovered  above  her  skirt, 
next  to  the  bed,  with  dry  eyes  challenging  the  man. 

His  eyes  caught  the  whiteness  of  her  flesh,  and 
measured  her.  Her  dry  blue  eyes  stood  up  upon 
her  body,  proudly,  challenging  the  man. 

In  stillness  he  came  gently,  he  placed  gentle 
hands  on  her  uncovered  shoulders.  Her  eyes 
burned  into  his.  His  hands  twitched,  melted.  That 
which  stood  behind  his  eyes  was  molten,  was  mov 
ing:  was  gone.  He  was  all  molten  moved  beneath 
the  heat  of  her  challenge. 

His  hands,  less  gentle,  were  upon  her  shoulders. 

A  little  moan  came  from  her  mouth.  Her  eyes 
closed.  She  helped  him.  .  . 

Very  soon  he  left. 


<218> 


ELEVEN 

THE  ALTAR  OF   THE  WORLD 


LATHRAN  let  himself  sink  deep  in  his  pil 
lows.  His  gaze  was  clear  to  meet  that  of 
his  friend,  the  doctor,  who  stood  above  him. 

"I'm  glad  you  had  the  courage  to  tell  me,  Steele. 
It  was  harder,"  he  smiled,  "for  you  to  tell  me  than 
for  me  to  he  told.  That  ought  to  comfort  you  a 
bit." 

"I  will  forgive  you,  Fred,  if  you'll  stop,  now, 
thinking  about  others.  Now  .  .  at  last  .  .  you 
might  start  thinking  about  yourself." 

"Now,  at  last?  Now  less  than  ever.  When  I 
was  well,  Steele, — and  had  life  and  work  before 
me,  there  was  reason  for  thinking  of  myself.  But 
now?" 

Steele  shook  his  head. 

"Logical?" 

The  doctor  tried  to  annihilate  the  term  with  his 
expression.  But  Lathran  would  not  have  it. 

"You're  more  valuable  than  I.  You?  Any 
mortal  that  has  a  whole  body  is  more  worth  con 
sidering  than  I.  Why  should  I  spend  these  last 
weeks  contemplating  an  experiment  that  has  fizzled 
out?" 

Steele  took  the  sick  man's  hand,  held  it  close. 

"If  only  there  was  a  loop-hole,  Fred,  in  your 
Empiricism  .  .  some   flaw   by   which   you    could 
<221> 


City  Block 

convince  yourself  that  you  are   .    .   that  you  will 
not   .    .    > 

He  stopped.     Lathran  helped  him  out. 

"Thank  heaven,  my  mind's  whole,  even  if  my 
body  is  breaking.  There  is  no  such  flaw.  In  a 
month  I  shall  be  dead.  That  is  all." 

He  had  half  risen  from  the  pillows.  His  voice 
was  warm  and  his  eyelids  trembled.  Steele  under 
stood. 

"Do  you  want  me  to  come,  to-morrow?" 

Lathran  now  looked  beyond  him.  It  was  the 
rapt  expression,  the  hardening  of  grey  eyes  that 
Steele  had  seen  so  often  in  the  Laboratory  when 
Lathran  pondered  an  experiment  whose  outward 
tokens  stood  there  at  his  shoulder  on  the  table. 
His  gaze  went  beyond  the  test-tubes  and  the 
scales,  to  be  more  purely  fixed  on  what  they  meant. 

There  was  a  pause. 

"No,"  he  said.  "Don't  come,  unless  I  call  you. 
Your  influence  is  bad,  old  man.  Just  this  moment, 
with  your  sentiment  and  your  .  .  damned  love, 
you've  weakened  me.  Don't  come  till  I  call  you." 

He  put  out  his  hand,  Steele  held  it.  With  his 
hand  still  clasped,  Lathran's  face  turned  toward 
the  wall. 

The  doctor  went,  wavered  at  the  door,  turned 
about:  "Shall  I  call  Janet?" 

This  time  no  pause.  It  was  as  if  in  his  last 
stillness,  Lathran  had  resolved  a  wide  category. 
Almost  silently:  "No." 

Steele  closed  the  door. 

<222> 


City  Block 


2 


For  an  hour  Lathran  was  alone.  He  rested 
quietly  on  his  back.  His  eyes  were  glad  of  the 
white  bareness  of  the  ceiling.  For  an  hour  he 
was  alone.  For  an  hour  he  repeated,  word  by  word, 
the  talk  he  had  had  with  Steele.  The  words  had 
no  logical  sequence.  They  had  rhythm.  One  sen 
tence  would  return  upon  itself,  recalling  a  phrase 
from  earlier.  All  the  words  came,  blanketed 
with  a  warm  feeling  that  his  derision — a  remote 
part  of  him — tried  to  pierce  through.  The  feeling 
rhythm  was  too  thick  for  it.  The  talk  went  on 
within  him.  Vaguely  now,  since  it  was  also  about 
him.  Sudden  the  derisive  fragment  flared,  was 
lambent,  obscured  the  words  with  its  light. 

—Why  am  I  saying  these  things?  Am  I  trying 
to  convince  myself? 

A  thread  of  pain  ravelled  up  his  face. 

"Janet!"  he  called. 

She  entered.    .    .    . 

He  knew  that  the  doctor  had  not  found  the 
courage  twice  to  tell  the  truth.  She  was  there, 
smiling. 

"I  was  told,  dear,  you  wished  to  be  alone."  A 
faint  cloud  went  over  her  bright  face  as  the  thought 
implied  in  this  told  on  her  consciousness.  But  of 
course  it  was  a  mood:  her  husband  could  never 
really  wish  to  be  without  her.  She  outshone  it. 

He  had  called  her  feverishly.  But  the  distance 
<223> 


City  Block 

took  away  his  accent's  value.  She  knew  nothing 
beyond  the  proper  fact  that  her  ailing  husband 
wanted  her  beside  him.  She  sat  down. 

He  talked  variedly  and  lightly  with  her.  And 
as  he  did  so,  it  came  to  him  that  he  talked  falsely. 
For  the  first  time  falsely!  His  words  and  smile 
were  echoes  of  a  communion  that  had  passed :  were 
dowered  with  life  and  life  was  over.  He  turned 
within  himself  from  this  facile  hypocrisy.  Faintly, 
while  his  words  went  on  and  his  own  ears  listened, 
he  pondered  the  new  process. 

— Is  not  an  echo  real?  Can't  I  be  approaching 
a  real  world  that  merely  my  distance  from  it 
makes  unreal?  .  .  .  Old  geographers  filled  in 
with  fabular  pictures  true  lands  and  seas  they  had 
not  charted.  The  mist  drooping  on  the  horizon 
will  recede  with  the  horizon  as  I  sail  on.  .  .  He 
lost  himself  in  these  appraisals  and  found  them 
sweet.  A  new  flood  of  feeling  came  of  them  that 
made  Janet  near  .  .  a  new  Janet  .  .  washed  out  the 
hurtful  gulf  between  them.  The  sunset  sentiments 
were  long  and  deep  like  sunset  shadows,  pointing 
a  transfigured  world.  And  in  their  play,  new 
tints  and  values,  infinite  swirlings  of  broken  light, 
moved  murmurously.  .  .  . 

Janet  left  for  his  broth,  he  abandoned  himself 
altogether  to  them. — They  exist!  He  did  not 
understand  them.  Their  fact  held  him  gently,  and 
the  same  thrill  came  that  in  the  past  might  have 
accompanied  the  promise  of  more  sensuous  enjoy 
ment. — They  are! 

<224> 


City  Block 

He  caught  himself.  The  evening  had  crept  up 
from  the  street  and  swollen  through  his  window. 
A  faint  purple  haze  shimmered  against  the  cur 
tains  where  hours  ago  was  Sun.  He  knew  what 
this  meant — the  day's  going.  He  gripped  him 
self  to  face  the  symbol  of  his  life  that  this  darkling 
sheathed.  Before,  a  full  flood  of  light  at  the  win 
dow.  Now,  veering  of  pale  moles.  — This  is  twi 
light.  He  caught  his  mind  and  made  it  judge  the 
sweet  still  pleasure  it  had  just  floated  toward:  the 
unreal  Janet  brought  near  where  his  true  wife  was 
distant,  the  broken  particles  of  thought  clustered 
about  a  breaking  life. — Already  so  far  dwindled? 
Already  the  mere  fragments  of  sensation  had  a 
glow  for  him  as  once  their  mastered  unity?  He 
had  embraced  these  pale  vagaries  of  his  mind  as 
once  he  might  have  some  full  bodily  possession. 

He  saw  a  man.  He  is  gaunt  .  .  grown  meat 
less,  sinewless:  he  is  a  skeleton  .  .  he  is  dust.  At 
each  state  he  is  hazed  about  by  a  sufficing  atmos 
phere  made  of  his  own  exhalations.  He  smiled. 
—I  am  already  satisfied  with  splinters  of  reality, 
with  shafts  of  shadow.  For  I  make  them  up,  I 
am  splintered  also!  ,  .  .  These  then  were  tokens 
of  himself.  But  here  were  only  terms  .  .  terms 
borrowed  from  a  different  life.  Vague  he  called 
them,  but  in  any  true  way  were  they  abstract  or 
diminutions?  The  skeleton  was  horrid  only  to  the 
man  with  flesh  about  his  bones. 

Steele's  words  came  alive  to  him.  To  doubt 
that  this  new  atmosphere  was  a  dwindling  .  .  to 
<225> 


City  Block 

equal  the  skeleton's  miasma  with  the  breath  of  liv 
ing  man  .  .  was  indeed  a  flaw  in  his  Empiricism. 
How  soon  he  had  touched  a  weakness  in  his  health- 
propped  Creed,  now  he  was  gripped  in  sickness ! 

But  the  flaw  healed.  Janet  was  there  with  the 
broth.  He  knew  again  the  resistless  difference  be 
tween  the  packed  throb  of  life — all  that  had  been 
— and  these  ghost-shivers  winging  through  him  as 
a  cloud's  shadow  scuds  through  water.  He  took 
the  hot  cup  from  her  into  his  hands.  The  faint 
tricks  died  that  his  faint  life,  yearning  to  be  real, 
had  played  on  him.  Janet  was  no  nearer.  But 
death  was.  And  since  this  was  the  Truth. 


3 

Lathran  lay  under  his  smoothed  covers ;  his  wife 
spoke. 

The  dawn  had  come  upon  the  night  like  pallor 
and  coldness  and  dying  on  a  face.  He  had  fallen 
asleep.  His  consciousness  flared  through  the 
dark,  colorful  and  strong,  and  then  it  too  grew 
infirm:  and  its  parts  flew,  a  mad  maze,  into  each 
other.  This  was  his  sleep.  But  now  he  lay  awake. 
And  the  sun  made  of  the  room  an  altogether  sepa 
rate  being  from  the  dawn  which  he  had  felt  as  the 
night's  death. 

The  day  was  a  young  body  bursting  in.     The 

day   advanced.     And  he   within   it   disappearing. 

This  was  the  quality  that  made  him  new:  that  each 

<226> 


City  Block 

time  caught  him  up  and  flung  him  off  from  what 
he  was  when  he  forgot. 

Under  it  all  was  the  wash  of  his  wife's  words, 
moving  with  promise  of  his  recovery.  Their  ten 
der  monotone  made  it  hard  for  his  mind  not  to  slip 
away.  And  the  direction  of  his  lapse  from  hearing 
her  was  toward  just  this  contrast  filling  the  room: 
the  day's  room  and  his  own  waning  within  it.  With 
her  there  and  the  light,  how  clear  that  he  was  dying! 

"Why  does  Doctor  Steele  stay  away?"  Janet 
asked. 

"There  is  no  need  for  him  to  come." 

Her  eyes  showed  her  strained  in  an  emotional 
deadlock  as  she  heard  this.  — What  does  he  mean? 
His  words  say  good  news.  Still,  weakly,  fever 
ishly,  you  are  there.  The  joyous  clang  they  should 
have  is  not  there.  Lack  falsifies  words  that  are 
there. 

"What  do  you  mean,  Fred?" 

He  sees  the  designless  ceiling.  He  is  very  calm. 
And  she  is  very  far  away.  —I  will  send  words 
upward,  straight,  impervious.  At  my  side  is 
Janet,  aside  from  my  words  and  myself  who  see  a 
designless  ceiling. 

"There  is  no  need  of  his  coming,  because  he  can 
not  help  me.  It  is  all  over.  .  .  That  is  nonsense. 

.  .  What  I  mean "     She  lurched  forward,  af 

body  caught  in  an  electric  current.     "Nonsense" 

cut  the   force,   setting  her  afire.     She   crumpled 

back,  the  hope  so  full  in  her  that  although  Lathran 

<227> 


City  Block 

dwelt  with  the  designless  ceiling,  like  a  flame  by  his 
side  she  burned  against  his  world. 

"What  I  mean  is  not  that  it  is  all  over.    What 

I  mean  is  that  my  life ."    Janet  standing.    A 

film  of  some  impregnable  element  stood  also  there, 
between  them.  Lathran  floated  away.  A  sea  of 
broken  thoughts  lapped  about  him.  He  was 
cradled  in  it.  He  was  at  rest.  .  .  He  remembered 
his  wife.  Her  hand  held  his.  Her  face  was  be 
fore  his  eyes. 

—She  knows!  Sad  face.  All  the  firm  world's 
anguish  within  it.  The  sweet  and  buoyant  sea  was 
gone.  He  was  in  chaos  once  more  .  .  sinking. 

4 

She  tried  never  to  be  away  from  him.  It  seemed 
to  her  all  that  she  could  do. 

He  knew  that  she  had  been  to  Steele.  For  she 
came  back,  bloodless  and  old,  at  noon.  Since 
then  she  had  not  left  him.  — She  has  resolved  to 
be  brave!  Her  eyes  were  the  most  curiously 
changed.  They  were  no  longer  steadfast  save 
when  they  looked  away.  And  when  they  met  his 
gaze,  they  were  full  of  panic  and  retreat.  Almost, 
they  were  full  of  guilt.  They  dared  not  look  for 
his.  A  common  knowledge,  there  in  the  room, 
threatening  to  enchain  her  eyes  like  naked  things 
before  a  Judgment.  They  were  afraid  of  a  truth. 
Always  before  they  had  been  warm  in  a  truth. 
Lathran  knew  that  his  last  perfect  meeting  with  his 
wife's  eyes  was  past. 

<228> 


City  Block 


Lathran  discovered  that  he  was  unhappy. 

This  was  remarkable  for  him  and  without  prece 
dent.  He  had  lived  too  fully  in  the  acceptance  of 
what  he  was,  of  what  life  was,  of  what  he  could  do 
in  life,  to  be  unhappy.  When  he  learned  that  he 
was  going  to  die,  acceptance  rang  on.  Even  then 
he  was  not  unhappy.  Now  it  was  different.  He 
asked  himself  the  cause.  He  was  amazed  to  feel 
that  in  so  asking,  his  thoughts  veered  from  the  mat 
ter  of  his  death.  Death  seemed  beyond  the  reason 
why  he  was  unhappy. 

Was  this  because  he  could  not  .  .  dared  not  .  „ 
really  dwell  upon  what  death  was?  There  was  an 
answer  for  this.  — Death  is  the  stopping  of  all 
things  for  me.  His  unhappiness  was  of  the  pres 
ent.  With  death  it  too  will  cease.  It,  then,  was 
not  the  cause.  He  could  face  that  future.  He 
could  not  find  it  in  him  to  resist  eff acement,  Too 
gradually  the  process  worked.  Too  fully  were  his 
senses  and  his  spirit  drenched  with  the  tendency 
of  death.  To  die  was  the  natural  thing.  This 
could  not  cause  his  restlessness.  What  then? 
Was  it  that  he  still  lived,  with  his  soul  forged  be 
yond  and  already  at  the  gates  of  the  Conclusion? 
lived  with  his  body  amorous  for  annihilation?  Was 
it  that  a  part  of  him  lagged?  .  .  . 

Janet  reads  to  him. 

Her  lithe  true  body!  Words  move  her  mouth 
and  make  her  breast  sway  faintly.  A  tense  strain 

<229> 


City  Block 

wrapped  her  up.  A  lovely  living  thing.  —She 
has  been  my  bread  and  my  wine.  Her  voice  has 
been  my  spirit.  He  knew  how  in  those  eyes  had 
lived  understanding  of  himself.  —I  ponder  the 
reason  of  my  unhappiness.  I  look  at  Janet! 

Knowledge  flicked  against  the  raw  of  his  feel 
ing.  All  he  was  ready  to  swing  on  .  .  to  the  End. 
— Janet  holds  part  of  me  back!  The  pull  hurts. 
The  pull  broke  the  monotone  of  dying. 

Looking  at  her  meant  to  linger.  Lathran  tried 
to  remember  something.  The  tendrils  of  a  past 
experience  waved  like  a  scarf  before  him.  He 
wanted  to  finger  it,  pursue  it.  He  wanted  what 
it  meant.  He  knew  no  more  about  it.  Then, 
here  it  is!  His  mind  was  clear  and  cold  while 
Janet  read.  This  thought  brought  him  nearer 
what  he  reached  for.  The  old  broken-lights,  the 
hinterland  of  graded  dissolutions,  shimmer  of  tone 
and  color  whose  reality  he  had  condemned  as  a  flaw 
In  his  Empiricism  and  whose  glow  was  warm  for 
him  to  lie  in,  move  through:  here  were  the  objects 
of  his  search.  With  his  mind  clear  and  cold  these 
were  gone.  He  had  not  for  some  time  been  in 
them.  Now  he  knew  why.  Janet  reads! 

These  could  not  live  in  his  wife's  presence.  Her 
strong  light  dispelled  them.  And  she  was  with 
him  always.  And  he  was  longing  for  these  things. 

He  believed  he  understood  what  his  mind  hinted. 
These  were  the  true  ways  now :  true  exhalations  of 
what  he  had  become.  Janet  was  of  the  past.  She 
drew  him  back  from  the  inevitable,  she  turned  his 

<230> 


City  Block 

nerves  from  their  direction.  This  hurt.  The  need 
of  dying  sent  out  its  call  against  her. 

— But  this  is  what  I  want!  cold  calm  facing  of 
what  must  be.  He  had  rebelled  that  his  mind  rot 
with  his  body.  What  were  these  ghosts  of  sense 
but  the  fumes  of  rotting? 

— Was  I  wrong?  For  the  first  time  he  was 
unhappy.  And  when  Janet  was  there  .  .  always, 
always  .  .  she  was  a  stranger.  Only  when  she 
was  gone  and  the  ghosts  of  sense  crept  up  did  she 
come  near  him.  Another  Janet.  Her  stuff  took 
on  the  nature  of  his  stuff.  .  .  Janet  of  breaking 
fading  particles  to  merge  in  his.  That  Janet  died 
along.  The  real  Janet  was  hard  and  stubborn  .  . 
so  loving,  so  loving  wrong  .  .  against  the  need  of 
his  slumberous  self.  She  stood  out,  alien,  like  a 
brilliant  pigment  thrust  in  a  cloudy  canvas.  She 
broke  up  the  melope  of  the  rest  of  the  picture. 

Judgment  stood  sheer.  Sweet  and  deep- 
breathed,  fertile-living,  Janet  was  false  to  what  his 
life  had  shrunk  to.  He  had  passed  even  from 
denying  that.  But  a  strain  still  lived  in  him 
against  what  had  become,  must  be,  his  state.  And 
of  this  strain,  Janet  was  the  way. 

— I  can  see  her.  I  see  you.  The  moist  beauty 
of  your  moving  lips,  the  soft  warm  breathing 
breasts,  how  gayly  firm,  how  bright !  Whole  young 
body  moist  as  with  a  dew  of  morning.  And  I  am 
dry.  He  felt  the  blade  of  her  spirit  sheer  like 
young  grass. — What  is  all  this  to  me?  That  he 
<231> 


City  Block 

saw  also :  the  agony  of  her  attempt,  since  she  loved 
him  living,  to  embrace  his  death:  the  sear,  marring 
her  fairness,  of  her  folly. — Relic  of  me  with  ful 
ness  of  you?  Reaches  of  life  between  them. 

Lathran  was  in  chaos.  Two  forces  flung  him. 
Sinking  autumn  and  high  spring.  Each  barred  the 
full  of  the  other.  Chaos.  .  Janet  reads. 


6 

She  comes  into  the  room.  He  knew  now  what 
came  with  her.  The  process  was  already  old  and 
constant.  His  trained  mind  gauged  it  with  keen 
fear.  His  trained  mind  found  a  term  for  it. 

When  she  was  there,  he  is  once  more  fleshed. 
That  was  it.  When  she  left  him,  he  was  volatile 
and  attuned  to  the  death  that  hailed  him.  As  he 
flowed  toward  it  now,  already  he  grew  rather  than 
dwindled.  The  balance  of  measure  was  already 
against  Flesh,  was  for  the  End.  Yet  the  flesh  was 
heavy,  it  turned  against  its  end,  it  made  him  feel 
misery  in  his  own.  —My  end  merely  a  little  sooner 
than  the  end  of  my  flesh.  His  learning  seemed  to 
have  missed  knowledge  of  just  how  long  after  he 
was  gone,  his  hands  and  his  face  and  all  his  flesh 
would  follow. 

Against  such  thoughts,  Janet  comes  into  the 
room:  upon  such  dwellers  in  him  she  leans  down: 
she  kisses  him :  her  breasts  like  flowers  stand  upon 
his  drouth. 

He  was  comfortable  in  bed.  The  day  was  grey. 
<232> 


City  Block 

He  saw  the  snow  swirl  in  blue  skeins  outside  his 
window.  All  the  day  was  a  pale  peace.  It  was 
cloaked  and  warm.  The  light  spread  through  the 
day  in  myriad  veins.  And  in  it,  his  mind  lay  also 
cloaked  and  softly  broken  up. 

A  little  cloud  of  flakes,  caught  in  the  haven  of 
his  window,  danced  free  of  the  heavy  drive  of  the 
storm.  No  wind  drove  them.  The  disparate 
splinters  of  the  wind  whiffed  them  here,  there,  idly. 
When  a  flake  touched  the  warmed  pane,  it  died. 

His  mood  was  lulled.  Beyond  brooded  sky, 
grey  and  without  movement  and  without  feeling. 
More  close  was  the  lazy  play  of  the  harbored  snow- 
flakes.  Between,  the  storm  drove  steadfast.  He 
lost  his  sense  of  being  separate.  He  merged  in  the 
monotone.  He  loved  it. 

Janet  was  there.  He  saw  that  something  had 
intruded  upon  the  constant  wither  of  her  sorrow. 
She  had  a  yellow  paper  in  her  hand  .  .  a  telegram. 

— From  the  world  of  storm  comes  a  long  thrust 
upon  us  .  .  upon  my  misty  room.  Through 
Janet,  through  her  hand,  sparking,  the  fire  of  the 
outer  world  like  that  paper  in  her  hand,  upon  my 
mist. 

"Dearest,  my  sister  .  .  this  telegram  says  her 
baby  will  be  born,  any  hour  now.  You  know  she 
always  needs  me." 

— New  life  in  the  world,  sparking  in  the  hand 
and  mouth  of  Janet,  against  my  slumber.  "Of 
course,  Janet.  You  must  go." 

<233> 


City  Block 

She  breathed  hard.  — How  can  I?  ...  She 
sank  in  a  chair.  And  she  sobbed. 

— Your  tears,  too,  are  life  sparking  through 
yours  eyes.  Eyes,  mouth,  hand  . .  all  of  you  spark 
ing  life.  "Go,  Dear." 

She  got  up.  Lathran  knew  then  how  very 
strong  she  was.  He  knew  the  reason  of  her 
strength  when  giving  way  had  been  good.  It  was 
her  knowledge  that  he  was  weak  .  .  and  that  life 
was  elsewhere. 

Master,  she  came  to  his  bed.  Her  hair  was  a  be 
wilderment  of  life  in  his  limp  arms.  Its  acerb 
perfume  cut  his  senses.  There  she  lay  while  her 
sorrow  waved  over  her  and  wracked  him  .  .  left 
her  whole. 

He  saw  how  stiff  and  broken  was  her  step  to  the 
door.  He  saw  the  strained  draw  of  her  shoulder 
.  .  the  curl  of  her  fingers  within  her  palms.  She 
did  not  turn  back — drawing  away  toward  Life. 


—I  am  going  to  be  alone! 
Alone.  .  . 
— Is  it  fair  of  me  to  long  to  be  alone? 


8 

There  was  a  great  Darkness,  low  like  a  sea,  out 
side.  A  stroke  of  light  from  the  sea  transfixed 
him.  The  sea  came  up.  His  being  said: 

<234> 


City  Block 

"I  am  going  to  die." 

It  was  a  different  saying.  It  made  him  know 
that  it  was  the  first  real  knowing.  All  of  him 
shared  this.  It  wrapped  him  up,  it  welled  within 
him.  He  was  aware  that  soon  it  would  be  he. 
That  which  was  other  than  himself  it  dimmed,  or 
it  drenched  to  the  same  element.  The  stroke  of 
light  whereby  he  had  known  went  out.  It  shat 
tered  into  innumerable  lucent  lives.  And  these  re 
mained.  They  were  everywhere.  They  gave  a 
soul  to  the  darkness.  They  were  the  spirit  of  his 
thinking.  They  were  to  be  his  thoughts,  running 
through  what  he  was,  as  the  light-splinters  ran 
through  the  black. 

His  being  had  become:  "I  am  going  to  die." 

He  had  never  dwelt  with  it  in  this  true  way  be 
fore. 

— /  am  alone!  His  thoughts  had  swirled  and 
thinned  ubiquitous,  avoiding  the  central  force  that 
drove  them.  The  word  "I  am  going  to  die"  had 
fallen  in  him.  And  his  scared  life  had  scattered 
from  the  word.  Tinged  with  it  all  his  thoughts 
had  been,  but  only  from  the  impact  driving 
them  off. 

"I  am  going  to  die."  Now  all.  Now  different. 
A  lull  like  the  slumbering  together  of  kindred 
creatures  come  from  afar.  And  this  light-breathed 
darkness  was  more  clear  than  all  the  days  he  had 
known.  His  mind  swung  through  it,  unafraid,  un 
hampered. 

All  these  years  he  had  groped  in  the  sun.  The 
<235> 


City  Block 

sun  was  not  his  home.  He  had  not  sprung  from 
the  sun.  The  sun  was  interlude.  These  womb- 
mists,  shot  with  light,  were  warmer.  In  a  way 
vastly  deep  they  were  familiar.  In  a  way  in 
finitely  old,  he  rested  in  them.  The  darkness  was 
now  everywhere,  like  a  sea.  Above  he  saw  the 
filming  wave  of  the  sea's  surface.  All  he  was 
bathed  in  it.  And  the  splintered  light  made  it  a 
sweet  thing  to  lie  in. 

—My  work  is  over.  He  would  never  work 
again.  "What  is  work,"  he  said  rejoicing,  "but  a 
man's  response  to  pain?"  And  he  without  pain. 
The  hurt  of  his  body  was  the  last  echo  of  a  lost 
word.  It  went  with  the  sun  .  .  pain  and  sun  .  . 
whose  interlude  was  played.  It  was  no  thing. 

.  .  Why  did  he  lose  the  sense  of  his  body  and 
of  his  hands,  and  of  all  the  mumbled  catchwords 
with  which  men  beguile  themselves  into  a  sort  of 
order?  Why  did  it  seem  to  him  that  he  is  very 
simple,  very  small  .  .  that  he  lies  clustered  in 
eternity  and  that  the  vastest  gesture  of  all  the  world 
is  this  one,  rocking  him  to  sleep? 


9 

Janet  is  there.  Sun  and  Janet  is  there.  He 
leaving  Janet  and  sun. 

But  as  he  tossed  in  his  chaos,  looking  at  her, 
looking  at  the  sun,  a  new  element  came  in.  He 
had  tasted  absolution  from  this  turmoil.  A  way 

r<  236  > 


City  Block 

to  retrieve  it,  to  hold  the  absolution  moved  into 
his  reach. 

She  is  at  the  window.  The  dullness  of  the  day 
creates  and  yields  to  her  brightness.  Without  her 
the  dull  day  would  be  singing  his  mood. 

But  he  could  drive  her  away!  He  could  forbid 
her  the  room.  He  could  achieve  his  world  of  ex 
halations. 

ffl  want  to  be  alone — with  my  dying." 

He  would  need  to  say  no  more.  Janet  would 
not  question.  Simply  she  would  obey.  With  the 
words  on  his  lips,  he  saw  already  the  gentle  falling 
of  her  eyelids  as  she  stands  there  receiving  his  de 
sire  and  goes. 

Goes!  — I  am  alone! 

Could  he  not  do  this?  Was  it  not  his  right? 
— It  is  I  who  am  dying! 

"Janet,"  he  called. 

She  came  silent.  She  sank  to  her  knees  and 
only  her  hair  was  visible  above  the  bed.  Like 
smoke  .  .  like  the  smoke  perfume  of  a  Sacrifice! 

Lathran's  dilemma  was  clear  to  him.  If  she  re 
mained,  so  will  his  agony.  The  other  way  meant 
Janet's.  The  wound  of  his  dismissing  her  will  be 
his  legacy.  It  will  be  a  blight  that  will  outlast 
him.  It  will  become  the  refrain  of  all  her  memory 

and  of  her  love.     But  from  his  side ?    — If  I 

shut  her  out,  I  slide  sweetly  into  death.  .  . 

She  remained  ministering  to  him:  sure  of  her 
love  and  therefore  sure  that  her  presence  was  a 
needful,  pitiful  thing.     Until  he  died,  he  would 
have  air,  he  would  have  her.    No  difference. 
<  237  > 


City  Block 

10 

No  respite  .  .  no  sustainment  as  he  went  save 
the  ironic  knowledge  that  he  might  have  gone  in 
peace.  She  sits  with  him,  doing  little  things, 
omniscient  of  his  vaguest  needs  .  .  of  all  needs 
save  the  one  Need  that  she  go.  — Cannot  you  see, 
smouldered  within  his  eyes;  it  is  not  I  you  love? 
I  have  gone  .  .  that  you  mock  this,  with  your  love 
for  that?  But  she  did  not  see.  Sometimes  she 
talked.  Sometimes  she  read.  More  and  more, 
simply  she  sits  beside  his  bed. 

Her  dresses  were  still  gay  .  .  May  colors  he  had 
loved  and  chosen  for  her  body.  This,  with  his 
quivering  sense,  he  understood.  He  knew  the 
black  dress  would  come.  For  Janet's  mourning 
was  a  flower  not  yet  blooming.  Its  blossom  he 
would  not  be  there  to  see.  But  all  of  its  sad 
fragrance  the  bud  held  tightly. 

Her  sorrow  was  fair,  serenely  growing:  it  was 
fair  to  see.  When  the  bud  was  ready  to  burst  he 
would  have  to  go.  Almost  it  was  as  if  the  budding 
of  her  grief  was  the  primal  thing,  the  moving.  He 
looked  with  joy  on  her  young  fair  grief  that  grew 
with  his  fading  away. 

To  cast  her  out  would  be  to  pluck  apart  the 
fragile  reluctance  of  that  flower  .  .  to  violate  its 
way  into  life. 

Why  could  he  not  be  sure  of  the  earth  of  her 
desire  to  be  there,  of  the  spirit  of  his  desire  to  be 
alone? 

<  238  > 


City  Block1 

11 

Looking  upon  her  grief,  looking  upon  his  con 
templated  act  he  found:  — I  am  glad  that  I  love 
her.  I  am  glad  that  I  love  her  better  than  she  me, 
for  she  is  fooled,  loving  a  half  dead  thing.  He 
began  to  feel  that  his  love  was  more  precious,  surely 
more  rares  than  the  sweet  falling  into  death  her 
presence  marred.  With  his  fingers  touching  her 
eyes  .  .  they  dared  again  .  .  he  caught  a  life  frail 
as  what  he  touched,  yet  too  strong  to  lean  upon  a 
future,  too  deep  to  have  dimension  beyond  itself. 

He  was  not  solving  his  dilemma.  He  suffered. 
Much  of  the  time,  he  was  torn  and  mangled  be 
tween  here  and  there.  Yet  in  a  way  marvelously 
veiled,  he  learned.  — I  am  learning?  What  is 
there  to  learn?  .  .  .  Beyond  the  slope  of  dying 
was  there  a  peak  of  life? 


12 

Always  he  had  not  asked  Janet  to  leave  him. 

He  stormed  against  his  weakness,  he  fought  with 
this  holding  sentiment  of  life,  while  his  death  filled 
the  room.  He  called  it  false. 

— False  as  her  love  for  what  I  have  become! 
What  if  truth  breaks  her  heart?  Should  he  have 
expended  all  his  days  dabbling  with  counterfeits, 
only  to  deny  reality  at  the  end?  Since  it  was  truth 
that  needed  solitude  and  her  wish  that  shut  it  out, 
let  her  heart  break!  Surely  the  silent  way  along 
which  his  dying  led  with  all  of  him  apace  was  the 
<239> 


City  Block 

true  way.  What  could  equal  that?  Merely  a 
fact :  she  stays. 

He  called  it  Sacrifice.  He  became  glad  of  it. 
He  ruled  that  his  wife's  false  peace  be  better  than 
his  quest.  He  would  die  agonized  and  estranged 
from  truth  in  order  that  she  might  live  with  a  mem 
ory.  Here  surely  was  a  perfect  immolation  of 
which  she  must  know  nothing.  Lest  it  be  marred. 
He  put  himself  in  tune  with  it.  .  .  Then  he 
laughed  at  the  word  Sacrifice  and  knew  it  for  a  lie. 
— What  truth  does  it  cover? 

All  of  his  swing  to  the  Conclusion  he  put  aside. 
He  still  believed  in  the  finality  of  the  mists  that 
came  to  escort  him  when  she  was  away.  But  of 
them  and  of  the  peace  they  brought  he  made  his 
abdication.  Janet  should  have  her  sentiment  to 
salve  her  loss. 

He  was  flowing  into  the  Mystery  with  his  nerves 
janglingly  shut  to  its  significance.  — What  truth 
does  the  lie  cover?  .  .  .  A  man  lives  once,  and  once 
meets  death.  His  had  been  the  chance  to  know 
the  Course,  to  hold  his  senses  open  to  the  way  of 
the  Passage.  And  where  he  went  love  and  pity 
and  comradeship  did  not  exist.  Already  in  the 
shadow  of  the  new  Realm  he  should  have  cast  them 
out.  With  his  wife  beyond  the  door  of  his  room, 
they  also  might  have  been  excluded  .  .  discards  of 
life  past  meaning  for  him.  But  he  chose  other. 
The  shred  of  human  sentiment  that  clung  in  the 
grain  of  his  dying  was  to  falsify  the  rest.  Janet 
would  stay.  And  all  the  ineffable  Design  made 

<240> 


City  Block 

by  his  dying  and  death,  made  by  his  dissolution 
from  the  world,  was  to  be  ash  on  the  world's  altar. 


ENVOI 

A  slow  Dawn.  . . 

A  fire  flared  forth  with  sweet  ravagement  and 
made  a  note  of  all  that  it  encountered.  No  longer 
the  drone  in  his  ears: — I  have  lived;  nor  the  sharp 
word: — I  die.  The  little  flame  went  forth  (was  it 
the  truth  that  the  lie,  Sacrifice,  had  hidden?)  It 
went  forth.  And  he  in  the  slow  and  in  the  quick 
of  it,  in  the  dirge  and  in  the  dance  of  it.  The  flame 
was  but  the  will  of  him.  He  but  the  way  of  it. 
His  hands  within  it  touching  the  hands  of  another, 
touching  the  hands  of  Janet.  And  all  they  touched 
glowed,  blest,  in  the  weave  of  the  flame  that  the 
lie,  Sacrifice,  had  hidden.  .  . 

He  took  nothing  of  Janet.  He  gave  her  noth 
ing.  The  moment  of  them  both  together  was  the 
flame.  And  its  light  was  without  Time,  and  its 
burning  was  all  things.  He  was  burned  free  of 
needs  and  appetites.  He  was  mindless  of  past, 
fearless  and  needless  of  future.  The  beat  of  his 
life  was  unisoned  with  all  he  encountered. 

Then,  he  encountered  all.  .  . 


<241> 


TWELVE 

JOUENEY'S  END 


THE  little  man  passed  John  Dawson.  Daw- 
son  leaned  against  the  brownstone  stoop,  one 
leg  across  the  other  so  that  the  toe  .  .  he 
wore  tan  brogans  .  .  gracefully  tipped  the  side- 
walk  beside  the  other  shoe. 

— Little  man  .  .  scarcely  my  shoulder. 

The  woman  whom  also  he  noticed  often,  from 
the  opposite  direction  passed  him  too.  She  walked 
deliberate,  suave.  Her  face  was  grey,  the  paint  on 
her  cheeks  absurd  against  her  eyes  with  their  glow. 

— Little  too.  Not  to  my  shoulder,  she.  .  .  I 
look  up  to  them  both ! 

His  two  feet  stood  square.  — I  can't  follow  the 
woman.  Well,  the  man.  .  . 

He  saw  him  through  the  intricate  thrusting  mass 
of  urgent  black  bodies,  wan  faces,  beyond:  little 
man  bobbing,  half-trotting,  swaying  in  a  dimension 
out  of  his  steady  progress.  Dawson  strode  nearer. 
Grey  hair  in  a  too  small  slouch  hat  .  .  the  sway  of 
the  little  man  ate  into  his  sodden  measure.  — I  am 
beginning  to  feel  you.  "I'm  beginning,"  he  said 
aloud,  "to  know  why  I  look  up  to  you,  think  of  you 
nights,  man,  swaying  along!  By  God,  you're 
dreaming.  You've  a  concrete  Dream."  — Where 
is  mine? 

—I  can't  walk  in  stride  with  him.  Dawson 
<245> 


City  Block 

stumbled  and  laughed.  They  were  at  the  corner 
of  the  Block.  The  little  man  stopped:  swaying 
more  sharply,  his  face  went  up  against  the  hoot  of 
an  Elevated  train.  He  quailed.  Dawson  saw  his 
hands  curl  in  pain. 

He  stepped  up  and  faced  him.  Another  train 
pounded  from  the  opposite  direction. 

"Trains  run  over  it,  eh?"  he  shouted.  "Trains 
made  of  steel  kill  it,  eh?"  .  .  .  The  trains  passed. 
In  the  silence  of  less  noise,  the  duller  usual  lay 
upon  the  street  of  horse-hoof,  foot-thresh:  —Am 
I  mad?  But  the  little  man  nodded.  "Not  kill  .  . 
not  kill,"  very  quietly  he  said.  "Not  so  bad  as 
that.  But  you're  right." 

Dawson's  mouth  opened.  He  looked  at  this 
partner  of  strangeness. 

A  slight  hand,  held  imperiously  up,  barred  him: 
"Don't  say  any  more.  In  the  hurt  of  that  train  I 
lost  my  hold  on  something  which  you  glimpsed. 
Don't  say  any  more,  sir.  You  can't.  These  acci 
dents  take  place." 

Dawson  breathed  hard.  He  felt  himself  to  the 
degree  that  self  was  palpable.  Dimensionally 
clear  the  lines  of  his  own  life  lay  upon  his  eyes.  — I 
am  a  strong  body.  I  am  a  mind  sick  with  its  sensi 
tivity  within  me.  I  have  said:  "Body,  you're 
right"  and  I  have  chosen  this  .  .  this  muffling  life 
of  work  on  stone  and  on  wood,  of  sweat,  of  the  good 
drunkenness  of  tired  muscles.  For  this?  What  is 
this? 

Came  the  high  fine  voice:  "We  live  on  the  same 
<246> 


City  Block 

Block.  You  have  seen  me  walking.  Afternoons, 
evenings.  After  school  hours.  You  have  been 
able  to  glimpse  who  walks  beside  me!" 

"Concrete,"  said  Dawson. 

"Loveliness.  .  ." 

A  pause.  The  little  man  watched  dimly,  then 
searched  half  away.  "There  are  tears  in  your 
eyes,"  he  said  not  looking  at  him. 

"My  dream  is  not  concrete.  There  aren't  tears 
.  .  never!" 

"You  will  weep  some  day."  Dawson  felt: 
— What  do  I  know  of  myself?  "Then  you  can  see 
the  tears  in  the  eyes  of  others.  .  .  Better  for  you, 
than  seeing  My  Dora."  He  blinked,  looking  away 
again  from  this  looming  obtruding  man. 

He  stood  there  a  white  wisp.  His  grey  hair, 
free  under  the  too  small  hat,  waved  in  the  wind. 
His  hands  waved  in  a  thought.  It  seemed  to  lift 
him  along. 


A  girl  came  down  dark  stairs  of  a  flat.  As  her 
hand  went  out  for  the  door,  it  opened  from  her. 
She  stepped  to  the  light,  a  man  was  going  up.  At 
her  slender  shoulders,  tugging  her  back,  was  the 
musty  shadow  of  the  hall.  Upon  her  face  the 
street,  full  of  the  mellowed  light  of  late  afternoon, 
and  this  man. 

She  smiled  at  him.  Her  smile  cut  through  some 
sweet  preoccupation  in  his  eyes:  he  smiled  back 
curtly. 

<247> 


City  Block 

"Good  evening,  Mr  Rudd." 

"Oh,  good  evening."  He  shut  the  door  behind 
him. 

She  stood  on  the  stoop  alone. — I  am  twenty- 
four.  She  felt  the  grey  skirt  clinging  to  her  hips, 
the  thick  waist  clinging  to  her  shoulders.  She  felt 
her  shoulders  free  but  the  grey  of  her  clothes  she 
felt  clung  to  her  face,  bound  her  head  and  her 
brow.  Her  neck  was  long,  ivory-tinged.  Her 
head  poised  with  beauty,  faintly  tilted  back  as  if 
the  mass  of  chestnut  hair  were  weight.  Darkly  it 
rose  from  the  brow,  golden  it  fell  to  the  nape.  Her 
eyes,  large,  blue  quiet  eyes,  lay  wandering  upon 
the  street,  right  and  left,  taking  in  nothing. 

She  sighed.  She  sat  on  the  stoop.  — I  am  tired. 
With  an  oblivious  hand  she  stroked  the  bare  other 
arm:  thin,  gold-downed,  faintly  perspiring. 
— Hot.  Peter '11  not  be  back  for  supper.  Sure. 
These  June  nights!  Dear  old  Peter  .  .  you  need 
other  company  than  Sister,  eh?  Don't  blame  you. 

Upstairs  the  quiet  carpenter  man,  Mr  Rudd: — 
is  he  kissing  his  wife?  are  they  at  table  with  Andy 
and  Jack,  the  lads  ?  Not  yet.  They're  in  the  bed 
room.  Supper  can  wait  on  the  stove.  His  arms, 
all  strong  with  their  reddish  hair  gleaming  from 
the  scrub  he's  given  them,  are  about  her  waist. 
How  they  love  each  other!  Something  is  wrong. 
What  is  it?  You  are  jealous.  You  are  a  little  in 
love  with  Mr  Rudd.  No  I'm  not.  Something  is 
wrong  up  there.  I  want  to  help  you.  Yes,  I  do. 
I  want  you  two  to  be  happy.  .  .  You  two  seem 

<248> 


City  Block 

happier  than  anyone  else  I  know.  I  want  you 
really  .  .  I  want  you  really  .  .  .  !  What  is 
wrong?  I  am  afraid  for  you.  .  .  He  and  she 
never  give  me  a  chance  to  speak  to  them.  So  stuck 
up.  So  in  love  with  themselves  and  each  other. 
Is  that  it?  ...  If  I  could  know . 

She  saw  John  Dawson  coming  up  the  street. 
— I  think  of  them  at  nights  and  that's  not  right. 
They  belong  to  each  other.  Just  below  my  room. 
Rudd,  reddish  white  in  the  black,  holding  the  body 
of  her.  That's  not  right!  She  looked  at  John 
Dawson. 

"Hello."     He  came  up  the  stoop. 

Dawson  nodded  and  sat  beside  the  girl.  She 
mopped  her  brow. 

"Hot,  eh?" 

"Yes,"  he  answered. 

He  was  not  looking  at  her. — Down  at  the  cor 
ner,  what  has  happened  to  me? 

— Mad  man!  Well  you  too  then,  you  joined  in. 
Madness  can  be  concrete.  Solider  .  .  solider 
than  what?  He  lifted  his  face,  searching  a  some 
thing  solider  than  madness.  He  saw  the  girl — 
Jane  McDermott.  He  stretched  out  his  hands  and 
looked  at  them.  Large,  bland  palms,  little-lined: 
fingers  twisted  with  heavy  tufts  of  hair.  — Empty 
hands.  Bah!  The  palms  that  hold  .  .  are  empty. 
The  fingers  have  moved  much.  They're  worn  with 
it,  twisted  with  moving.  What  have  they  put  in 
the  palms?  He  looked  at  the  girl  again.  She 
was  unobtrusive  upon  him.  — He  teaches  school. 
<249> 


City  Block 

Mad!  Every  afternoon  and  evening  he  walks  with 
a  dame  of  Loveliness  called  Dora.  Lucky  kids. 
Wish  I  was  one  of  them.  I  had  no  teacher  like 
that.  Well,  I'm  mad  too.  Look  at  your  talk. 
Look  at  me  now! 

With  an  effort,  seeing  the  girl  within  his  world 
of  strangeness,  Dawson  spoke:  "We  haven't  got 
much  to  say  to  each  other  today." 

"Why  should  we?" 

"Why  should  we  not?  We  live  in  the  same 
house." 

"What's  that?" 

"Well,  we  live  in  the  same  world.  Some  of  the 
same  things  must  happen  to  us  both." 

"Yes." 

"Why  can't  we  talk  about  them?" 

"You  begin." 

"Will  you  follow?" 

"If  I  can." 

"I  don't  know  how  to  begin."  He  sulked  like 
a  child. 

"I'll  begin  for  you  .  .  just  once.  You're  funny 
to-day.  Something  has  happened  to  you.  Some 
thing  that  stirred  you  all  up." 

"You  know  what's  happened  to  me,  Jane?"  She 
flushed  at  her  name,  her  eyes  hardened.  "A  most 
mysterious  thing.  A  terrible  thing.  I  found  my 
self  in  the  world." 

The  girl's  eyes  startled,  then  softened  in  acqui 
escence.  She  accepted  his  words. — Go  on!  Queer 

<250> 


City  Block 

long  words.  Funny  mechanic,  you.  Go  on, 
though. 

John  Dawson  was  silent. 

Both  of  them  were  silent.  They  sat  there,  op 
posite  each  other  on  the  stoop,  confronted,  apart. 
Their  eyes  did  not  meet.  They  felt  each  other's 
eyes  not  going  out  to  meet.  Men,  women,  passed 
between  them  going  up  and  down  the  house  that 
stood  above  them  very  high.  Its  largeness  was 
made  of  myriad  little  questions.  .  .  Their  eyes, 
forced  back  from  meeting,  each,  the  silent  life  of 
the  other,  went  within.  Jane  McDermott,  the 
man — You  are  not  John  Dawson  now!  .  . 
searched  in  themselves  with  their  retreating  eyes. 

Moments  of  ruminant  darkness.  Their  minds 
gave  no  light  from  their  inner  search  of  themselves. 
Sudden  their  eyes,  sated  from  within,  and  expelled, 
energized  so,  came  forth :  stood  nervous,  tense,  pas 
sionate  to  each  other. 

Dawson  said:  "Come  with  me  for  a  walk." 

Like  one,  they  got  up. 

"Are  you  busy?"  He  spoke  panting,  she  heard 
this.  "Have  you  hours?  I  want  hours  of  you, 
Jane  .  .  at  once!  Are  you  free  .  .  hours?" 

At  the  end  of  the  street,  broken  into  several 
Blocks  as  at  the  end  of  a  telescopic  funnel,  lay  the 
Park.  It  had  folds  of  green,  gentle  and  virginal 
in  June,  that  lay  upon  the  mole  above  the  River. 

The  man  and  the  girl  felt  the  Park  before  they 
saw  it.  They  turned  their  faces  toward  it  and 
their  backs  upon  a  round  red  sun.  It  bled  upon 
<251> 


City  Block 

blackness  and  grey.  They  cast  it  off  with  their 
hurry. 

They  walked  very  fast.  He  was  tall,  he  had 
long  legs  and  a  swinging  stride.  She  tried  to  keep 
step,  she  could  not.  In  the  effort  her  body,  tall 
too  and  lithe,  broke  gently  at  the  waist  into  a  boy 
ish  awkwardness  of  strain.  Her  elbows  pointed 
back  of  her  slight  hips  and  her  head  pressed  for 
ward. 

They  stopped.     "Should  we  sit  here?" 

They  sat  in  the  grass.  Above  them  beyond  the 
iron  grille,  the  walks  slashed  up.  Few  women  and 
children  were  at  the  benches  so  that  the  walk  was 
light.  The  lawn  fell  fast  to  the  River.  The  water 
churned,  slipping  away  between  the  City  and  the 
Island  with  its  hospitals.  It  flung  along  with  it 
tug-boats,  barges,  that  danced  with  the  rapid  cur 
rent  against  their  own  sedateness:  a  few  chugged 
with  heavy  feet  against  the  stream.  The  day 
dimmed  fast.  Lights  streaked  against  the  grey 
ing  blondness  of  the  day  like  strains  of  grey  in  the 
fair  hair  of  a  woman. 

"I'm  going  to  take  your  challenge,"  the  man  sat 
at  ease  on  the  lawn,  "I  am  going  to  talk  about  my 
self.  You  said  for  me  to  begin.  I  don't  know  if 
you'll  follow  me  or  not.  I'm  doing  this  for  myself 
.  .  not  for  you  .  .  not  to  interest  you.  For  my 
self.  Perhaps  to  interest  myself.  I  don't  know 
very  much  about  why  I  am  talking.  All  I  know 
is,  it  has  nothing  to  do  with  you."  He  turned  to 
her.  "That's  a  beginning  at  least,  of  knowing 

<252> 


City  Block 

something — "  he  drawled  the  last  two  words,  then 
he  stopped.  "I  take  that  back.  I  don't  know 
even  that.  If  it's  because  of  you  .  .  or  not." 

"Don't  begin,"  she  said. 

"It's  too  late,  now." 

He  saw  the  pulse  of  her  throat  .  .  heart  heart  .  . 
vivid er  than  her  words.  He  saw  a  veil  come  over 
the  flash  of  her  eyes. 

"What  is  your  name?"  she  said. 

He  felt  no  surprise.  "What  difference?  .  .  so 
long  as  you  have  guessed  it  isn't  Dawson." 

"Yes." 

"Evans  .  .  Lathrop  Evans:  native  of  Chicago. 
C.  E. — that's  Civil  Engineer,  Graduate  of  Ann 
Arbor  .  .  if  you  want  to  know.  Married,  di 
vorced.  My  wife  preferred  Chicago  to  the  Con 
struction  Camps.  .  .  Brilliant  career  building  roads 
and  dams  in  Wyoming,  Idaho,  Montana — now 
forgotten  already.  Hard  drinker — now  sober, 
forever.  Good  cool  head,  good  Boss,  good  theorist 
too, — and  today  I  don't  know  if  I  am  mad  or  not." 

He  looked  at  her  now  as  he  spoke,  leaning  his 
body  toward  her. 

"Look  here,  I  am  brilliant  and  you  are  not.  I 
don't  say  I  have  a  better  man's  mind  than  you  a 
woman's.  But  mine's  trained,  yours  isn't.  Mine 
is  nourished  with  experience  of  men  and  women  and 
life:  yours  is  not.  I  am  a  danger  to  you,  Jane. 
You  can't  cope  with  me.  I'll  bowl  you  over.  But 
you  can  run  away?" 

Her  eyes  met  his,  they  were  flat  against  his  ques- 
<253> 


City  Block 

tion  like  a  lawn  of  young  blue  grass  .  .  inviting. 
"In  chatting  with  you,  already  I've  turned  up 
some  things  about  myself  I  didn't  know.  I'm 
lonely.  It's  over  a  year  since  I  lit  out  from  the 
West  .  .  over  a  year  alone.  And  I'm  hungry. 
And  I'm  after  you.  That's  the  reason  for  this. 
You  see,  when  I  said  before  you  had  nothing  to 
do  with  my  talking  I  fooled  myself.  It's  a  habit 
of  my  blood  you  Irish  haven't  got.  You're  one- 
minded;  we  aren't.  That's  why  we  always  win 
against  you  .  .  and  always  envy  you,  somehow, 
your  defeat.  For  the  fifteen  months  I've  been 
alone,  not  touching  a  woman,  not  touching  whis 
key,  I've  barred  myself  even  from  knowing  that 
I  was  hungry  and  thirsty.  That's  how  I  man 
aged  it  .  .  a  cheating  way  you  haven't  got.  Today 
I  meet  a  mild  madman  who  takes  walks  with  an 
invisible  Queen  whom  he  calls  Dora.  And  in  his 
satisfaction  my  wants  wave  over  me.  Do  you  wish 
to  get  away,  Jane  McDermott,  back  to  your 
brother  whom  you  care  for  so  and  who  finds  it  so 
damned  convenient  to  be  cared  for  by  you?  Go 
now.  This  volume  of  words  is  meant  to  seduce 
you.  You  know  that  word.  There  are  you,  here 
am  I.  I'm  building  a  Bridge  between  us.  You've 
never  known  any  one  before  who  could  build  a 
Bridge  .  .  who  could  use  words  like  me.  Your 
folks  are  dumb  .  .  except  when  they  sing  and  are 
drunk.  Song  and  drunken  dance  have  power 
against  children.  Words  .  .  bridge-building  words 
have  power  against  men.  And  you're  not  a  man. 

<254> 


City  Block 

You're  a  child  .  .  with  a  skin  like  the  white  of  a 
peach.  I  am  building  a  Bridge  into  you  .  .  under 
your  clothes  into  you.  .  ."  He  stopped. 

When  he  spoke  again,  his  voice  was  clouded  and 
slow. 

"Should  I  go  on?" 

Her  eyes  were  there  .  .  their  blue  was  green 
like  a  lawn.  Not  now  like  a  lawn.  Still  green  in 
the  blue  twilight,  they  were  smaller,  sharper;  they 
met  the  eyes  of  the  man. 

They  were  breathing  together.  They  sat  very 
close.  They  were  alone.  They  did  not  notice 
each  other,  but  they  were  breathing  together. 

The  strain  of  their  union  grew.  A  tremor  ran 
through  them,  and  the  man  could  not  bear  it.  The 
strain  broke.  There  they  sat,  side  by  side  on  the 
darkling  grass  above  the  running  River.  They 
sat  there  mellow.  There  was  no  strain  between 
them. 

Dawson  knew  what  this  was  that  had  come  to 
be  between  them.  .  .  He  marvelled  more  than  she, 
because  he  knew. 

He  took  her  hand,  he  had  not  touched  her  be 
fore  :  now  he  held  her  hand  tenderly  within  his  two 
large  palms. 

"You  are  Loveliness,"  he  said.  "And  I  see 
you." 

She  murmured  a  sound:  "I  feel  you." 

He  wanted  to  fee!  her.     He  pressed  her  hand 
and  it  was  only  a  hand  with  all  of  a  hand's  defining 
character.     He  dropped  it.     His  own  hands  went 
<  255  > 


City  Block 

to  his  face.     He  saw  through  his  fingers  the  River 
running  in  a  passionate  silence. 

-What  have  I  done  now?  what  now?  Beside 
him  sat  this  girl  who  was  his.  — She  is  mine  .  . 
what  is  that? 

He  was  afraid  to  look  at  her.  He  did  not  like 
the  sureness  of  the  River.  He  shut  his  eyes. 

He  saw  his  Resolution:  "Bridges  .  .  rough  men 
.  .  virgin  desert  lands  .  .  shall  be  ghosts.  I  want 
something  concrete,  something  real.  The  real  is 
the  lovely."  .  .  The  mad  little  man  also  used  that 
word.  Had  he  come  to  New  York,  earning  his 
bread  stupidly  with  his  hands,  flinging  his  mind  and 
his  science  and  his  prestige  into  the  discard,  to  see 
him,  to  surprise  the  dream  of  a  little  man,  to  see 
Jane?  .  .  . 

He  sat  below  her  on  the  sloping  lawn  and  he  saw 
her.  Dark  and  tall  she  was,  marvelously  sure 
against  the  smoky  sky  of  the  young  night.  She 
rose  like  a  little  tree  from  the  earth  where  they  sat, 
his  hands  touched  her  knees.  From  the  earth  rose 
her  body  and  his  vision  of  her.  He  knew  within 
that  simple  mark  of  her  against  blind  sky,  what 
there  was  he  could  touch :  hair,  eyes,  her  mouth,  her 
throat,  her  arms,  her  breast. 

— What  there  is  of  her,  I  can  touch! 

He  did  not  see  that  she  was  crying. 

2 

Jane  knocked,  opened  without  waiting,  laughed 
into  the  room.  Dawson  lay  on  his  bed.  "Hello." 

<256> 


City  Block 

He  stretched  out  his  arms,  otherwise  did  not  move. 
She  entered  them  and  kissed  him  with  quick  ten 
derness.  She  sat  on  the  chair  beside  him. 

"Why  do  you  laugh?"  he  said. 

"It's 'so  funny." 

"What?" 

"You've  had  this  nice  room  and  yourself  in  it, 
so  many  months,  and  until  seventeen  days  ago  I 
never  had  the  sense  to  come  in." 

"You  weren't  invited." 

"Would  you  have  thrown  me  out?" 

"Most  certainly." 

She  laughed  again. 

"You're  happy,  Jane?" 

"Don't  make  me  think,  man  I" 

"I  don't  laugh  half  so  much  as  you  do,  Jane." 

"Why  should  you?" 

"It's  I  got  what  I  wanted,  getting  you." 

"Who  knows?  .  .  .  Why  do  you  like  my  horrid 
grey  old  clothes?  why  now  won't  you  let  me 
change?" 

"I  got  to  know  you  in  them.  They  were  a  sym 
bol  for  me  when  first  I  got  to  know  you.  You 
don't  understand?  I  knew  then  just  as  well  as 
now  what  a  soft  white  subtle  skin  you  had,  you 
woman!  I  said  to  myself:  If  she  wears  coarse 
grey  wool  over  that,  she'll  take  me  too.  That  skirt 
and  that  waist  .  .  in  Spring,  and  lots  of  light 
things  cost  less  .  .  clinging  to  your  flesh,  protect 
ing  it,  denying  it  almost,  made  me  think  of  me. 
<257> 


City  Block 

I  too  was  a  coarse  heavy  stuff  surrounding  and 
covering  you,  Jane." 

"John- 

"Yes;  but  answer  me  something  first.  Why  do 
you  call  me  John?" 

"John's  your  name." 

"Not  .  .  the  other?" 

4 John's  your  name!" 

He  chuckled.     "What  were  you  going  to  say?" 

"That  you're  wrong,  John.  You  don't  cover 
me." 

He  sat  up  in  his  bed.  The  soft  collar  of  his  open 
shirt,  pushed  back,  revealed  hard  sinews  digging 
into  the  chest  like  roots  of  a  tree.  His  feet  were 
bare.  Narrow  long  feet,  strangely  white  beneath 
the  torn  fringe  of  his  trowsers,  against  the  glow 
of  his  face. 

"You're  not  laughing  now,  Jane.  When  you 
say,  I  don't  cover  you,  you  stop  your  smile.  That 
shows  you  want  me  to." 

"I  don't  know.  I  never  wanted  anything  in  the 
world." 

"Jane,  what  is  it  you  want?" 

She  looked  at  him  with  eyes  larger  and  more 
blue.  Vaguely  her  hand  moved  toward  his,  and 
vaguely  away. 

"What  is  it,  John?" 

"Have  I  done  wrong  loving  you,  taking  you?" 

She  smiled  and  shook  her  head.  "You  haven't 
taken  me.  You  haven't  loved  me." 

<258> 


City  Block 

He  was  pale.  Her  words  struck  him  helpless 
against  them. 

"Jane,  what  do  any  of  us  know?" 

She  saw  him  suffer.  So  she  took  his  face  in  her 
hands.  She  kissed  his  eyes,  his  hair,  rumpling  it 
gently.  She  kissed  his  throat  and  his  mouth.  She 
looked  long  at  his  brow.  She  won  her  way  into 
his  arms,  enfevering  him  with  her  deliberate 
warmth :  subtly  at  work  against  the  strain  and  pain 
of  his  questioning  brow.  She  did  not  kiss  his  brow 
until  his  body  forgot. 

In  a  release  they  lay  on  his  bed.  His  brow 
locked  once  more.  There  was  his  brow  above 
them.  His  hand  followed  the  clear  line  of  her  body 
.  .  loose  tremulous  intaking  hand  at  war  against 
his  brow.  His  eyes  looked  upward  following  what 
his  hand  gave  him  to  feel.  But  there  was  con 
flict.  His  eyes  ached.  His  hands  felt  no  more. 

Her  flesh  shrank  against  a  hand  that  touching 
her  had  no  eyes  and  no  mind  along.  She  suffered 
in  his  bed.  She  took  his  hand  and  placed  it  like 
a  child's  on  the  sheet  beside  her. 

"Why  don't  I  cover  you,  Jane?" 

"You  ask  so  many  questions!" 

"You  ask  so  few!  I  wish  you'd  ask  me  more. 
Not  a  question  about  myself!" 

"Didn't  you  tell  me?" 

"Precious  little  .  .  that  first  afternoon.  How 
many  days  ago?" 

"Seventeen  days " 

"Not  a  question  since." 

<259> 


City  Block 

"But  John,  you  know  so  little  yourself.  Wise 
boy  .  .  you  couldn't  tell  me  anything.  .  .  You 
come  from  a  swell  family  in  Chicago — 

"Not  swell  at  all.  My  father  owned  a  hard 
ware  store  on  the  North  Side.  He  died  leaving 
my  mother  $1200  a  year." 

"He  sent  you  to  College 

"Just  see  how  little  you  know!  I  worked  my 
way  through.  I  waited  on  a  table.  I  did  odd 
electrical  jobs  .  .  plumbing  .  .  anything.  Sum 
mers  I  made  good  money  playing  baseball." 

"It  doesn't  matter  a  bit.  You  are  swell.  You 
are  smart.  You  got  done  with  College  and  began 
making  lots  of  money  bossing  other  men.  Then 
you  married  a  swell  girl — stuck-up  girl.  And  you 
didn't  have  any  babies,  and  you  got  unhappy — 
and  drunk.  And  a  big  job  came  from  some  other 
State  where  there  are  high  mountains  and  rivers 
and  everything  .  .  just  the  opposite  of  Chicago 
I  guess :  I  know  where  it  is  on  the  Map  even  if  I 
don't  know  the  name.  And  away  you  went  mad, 
without  kissing  your  wife  goodbye.  And  you 
made  more  money.  And  because  you  were  mad 
when  you  left  her  and  didn't  kiss  her,  and  did  her 
dirt, — it  wasn't  her  fault  she  was  born  swell  any 
more  than  yours,  or  mine  that  I  ain't — just  be 
cause  of  that  you  hated  her,  and  told  her  to  divorce 
you.  She'd  never  have  done  it  first.  Women 
don't  sin  that  way  with  a  man  like  you.  And  you 
went  on  sinning  .  .  and  sinning " 

"Divorce  is  a  sin?" 

<260> 


City  Block 

"Yes.  Double.  The  marriage  that  ends  in  di 
vorce  is  the  first  sin  and  the  divorce  is  the  last. 
You  went  on  sinning  in  the  mountains  just  as  you 
had  in  the  city " 

"How?" 

"Gloomy  .  .  being  gloomy.  Cursing.  Never 
forgetting  yourself.  Being  gloomy,  mostly.  What 
a  sin!"  Jane  laughed.  "And  so  at  last  you  got 
tired  of  being  sinful  in  the  mountains  just  as  you 
had  of  being  sinful  in  the  city.  So  you  came  back 
to  the  city.  .  ." 

"Another  city." 

"Of  course."  She  leaned  over  him.  Her  breasts 
pointed  above  the  tangled  hair  of  his  chest.  So 
suspended,  she  looked  at  him  and  laughed.  "Well, 
don't  I  know  about  you?  More  than  you  know. 
You  can't  add  a  thing." 

His  arms  went  over  her,  but  he  did  not  bring 
her  nearer. 

"You  don't  make  me  ashamed  of  myself.  Not 
a  bit.  Do  you  hear?" 

Then  she  kissed  his  brow  .  .  and  jumped  up. 
They  dressed. 

"Sit  down,"  he  said.  She  sat  down.  "Now, 
let's  get  at  this." 

He  paced  the  little  room,  gathering  words.  She 
folded  her  hands  in  her  lap  and  with  her  head  up- 
tilted  followed  him  pacing  the  room. 

He  stopped,  faced  her,  feet  planted  wide. 
"There  are  women  like  you.  Yes,  there  must  be 
women  like  you.  You  don't  know  a  thing.  A 
<261> 


City  Block 

man  like  myself  is  an  unheard-of  mystery  to  you, 
to  everyone  you  know  .  .  to  your  Priest,  to  your 
friends,  to  your  meteoric  little  chap  of  a  brother 
who  can't  hold  his  drink.  Yet  you're  inside  of 
me  .  .  deep.  Your  eyes  and  your  fingers  touch 
every  part  of  my  soul.  It's  not  my  words  you 
know  .  .  it's  not  my  thoughts.  It's  me." 

He  sat  at  her  feet.  She  looked  straight  now 
from  her  delicate  round  face  to  his  .  .  long,  worn : 
a  boy's  brown  eyes  in  the  face  of  a  man  who  had 
worn  life  roughly.  His  face  was  near.  In  the  ill- 
focus  of  her  far-sighted  eyes,  Jane  saw  the  tri 
angular  design  of  his  face  with  base  at  the  brow 
and  fine  point  at  the  chin.  She  closed  her  eyes. 
"I'm  not  a  person,  Jane.  That's  the  truth  about 
me.  That's  why  Evans  slipped  so  quickly  into 
Dawson.  That's  also  why  the  Deer  Sook  Dam 
got  built  so  quick  and  so  well.  Dams  and  bridges 
and  roads  across  alluvial  plains  .  .  that's  easy 
enough.  One  needs  a  mechanical  head  and  a  me 
chanical  nerve  for  that.  And  getting  women  with 
open  hearts  like  you  .  .  like  my  wife:  that's  easy 
too.  Just  a  good  body  and  a  hopeless  hunger  is 
all  you've  got  to  have  for  that.  But  being  a 
person- 
She  clasped  his  brow  and  smoothed  it  with  her 
fingers.  "Don't  wrinkle  your  forehead.  That 
won't  help.  That  only  blinds  you— 
"—Blinds  me?" 

"You're  as  blind  as  a  puppy.  Haven't  you  ever 

* 


City  Block 

noticed  how  wrinkled  up  their  faces  are?  and  a 
baby's  too.    They  can't  see  a  thing." 

"I  can  see  that  you  are  lovely.  There  are  women 
like  you."  He  drew  up  a  chair  and  sat  beside  her. 
"Why  don't  I  cover  you,  Jane?" 

His  pride  was  hurt.  — The  little  man  with  his 
crazy  dream  .  .  the  little  woman  with  the  painted 
cheeks  .  .  this  girl  who  came  the  moment  I  told  her 
to  .  .  give  me  shame,  hurt  my  pride !  It  hurts.  He 
looked  at  her  since  she  did  not  answer  his  question. 
— Ignorant  Catholic  girl.  A  lovely  body.  Mother 
sense  hungering,  that's  all.  It  gets  you! 

"You  go  to  Church  don't  you,"  he  asked. 

"I  haven't  for  three  weeks." 

"Why  not,  Jane?" 

"I'm  not  ready  yet,  John  dear,  to  tell  my  Con 
fessor  about  you." 

"You're  afraid " 

"I'm  not!  I'm  not  ready  for  his  advice.  I  know 
what  it'll  be." 

"And  you'll  obey  it?" 

"When  I  hear  it,  yes." 

— Shame,  shame!  These  persons  toss  me  about. 
He  was  bruised  with  their  tossing.  He  stretched 
out  his  arms  and  saw  that  they  were  strong. 

"It's  not  the  Church  that  keeps  me  from  cover 
ing  you?" 

"The  Church!"  Jane  laughed. 

"Is  it  Peter?" 

"My  brother?"  she  startled  and  her  smile  was 
gone. 

<263> 


City  Block 

"Well,  why  not  your  brother?"  — I  do  not  want 
to  be  shamed!  "You  love  him,  don't  you?  Are 
you  so  wise  you  know  the  difference  between  loves?" 

"If  you  went  to  Church,  you  educated  monster, 
you'd  know  too." 

He  was  again  at  her  feet  on  the  floor.  She 
placed  his  head  in  her  lap. 

"I  don't  know  a  thing,  I  admit.  Jane,  tell  me 
about  your  brother." 

"What  is  there  to  tell?  You  know  him.  He's 
wild  and  good  .  .  a  regular  man.  I  take  care  of 
him  and  he  takes  care  of  me.  He's  very  religious 
and  Saturday  nights  he  gets  drunk.  You've  seen 
him  often." 

"Jane,  who  is  it  that  keeps  me  from  covering 
you?" 

She  stroked  his  hair.    Looking  away  she  stroked. 

"Tell  me  your  thoughts,"  he  said,  his  face  close 
in  the  thick  wool  of  her  lap,  feeling  beneath  the 
skirt  her  self  .  .  serene,  undef ending.  "I  want  to 
know  why  I  can't  feel  you  even  now,  when  my  face 
is  in  your  lap,  close  on  your  body  .  .  your  body  that 
has  been  mine!" 

She  stroked. 

"Jane!    What  are  you  thinking  about?" 

She  looked  down  at  him,  her  hand  stroking. 
"What  am  I  thinking  about?  O  about  something 
that's  nothing  to  you  .  .  that  has  nothing  to  do 
with  us  .  .  about  someone." 

"Who?"    He  lifted  his  face. 
<264> 


City  Block 

"O,  a  man  you  don't  know.  He  just  came  into 
my  mind." 

"Who?" 

"His  name  is  Mr  Rudd." 

"Rudd!  The  carpenter  who  lives  down  below 
you  with  a  wife  and  two  kids?" 

"Yes." 

"Why  of  Rudd?" 

"Why  not?" 

"Jane,  tell  me.  Is  there  anything  between  you 
and  him?" 

"I've  never  said  more  to  him  than  How-do- 
you-do." 

"Why  Rudd  then- 

"You  wanted  to  know,  John,  what  I  was  think 
ing  of,  that  moment.  Well,  I  told  you." 

He  was  quiet.  He  laid  his  head  once  more  in 
her  lap  and  her  hand  fell  to  stroking  his  hair. 

"Go  ahead,"  he  said.  "What  were  you  thinking 
about  Rudd?" 

"Crazy  thoughts 

"Perhaps  all  thoughts  are  crazy." 

"Well,  I'll  tell  you.  But  don't  break  in,  the 
way  you  usually  do.  Everybody  can't  reel  off  his 
thoughts  like  you  can." 

He  was  still  under  the  stroke  of  her  hand.  Meas- 
uredly  it  brought  new  calm  between  them. 

"I  don't  know.  I've  never  said  anything  to  him 
6ut  hello  nor  he  to  me.  And  not  that  to  the 
Missus.  I  don't  know  where  she  does  her  market 
ing.  But  I  seem  to  sort  of  know  they're  very  happy 

<265> 


City  Block 

together.  And  it  frightens  me,  because  they're 
afraid  because  they're  happy  together.  Why 
don't  they  ever  laugh?  I  don't  know  of  course  if 
they  do:  how  should  I  know?  But  they  don't. 
Peter  and  me  and  them've  been  living  in  this  flat 
for  years.  I've  seen  and  seen  them.  They  are 
happy  and  they  never  laugh.  .  .  So  I'm  afraid. 
What  business  is  it  of  mine?  Well,  I  don't  know. 
He's  such  a  sweet  boyish  man  .  .  so  proud  and  so 
gentle-like.  Always  his  head  up  high.  What'd 
happen  if  something  happened?  Things  always 
do!  I  feel  nothin's  happened  to  him.  I'm  afraid, 
for  when  it  does."  She  paused.  The  strokes  of 
her  hand  on  his  head  were  passed.  Her  hand  lay 
gently.  "You  think  I'm  crazy  thinking  about 
Rudd.  Guess  I've  got  plenty  of  spare  time  to 
think  foolish  in.  Just  before  you  came  that  after 
noon  and  asked  me  to  walk,  he  went  up.  And 
around  his  shoulders  there  was  a  sort  of  smoky 
cloudy  ring.  I  saw  it.  He  felt  it  too.  He  seemed 
in  a  hurry  to  get  up  as  if  when  he  saw  his  wife 
it'd  go." 

"Haven't  people  a  right  to  be  happy?"    Dawson 
raised  his  head. 

"O  yes.     I  hope  so.     But  when  they've  a  right 
to,  don't  they  laugh?" 

"There's  nothing  the  matter  with  Rudd.     He's 
a  good  worker  .  .  a  good  man." 

Jane  clasped  her  hands  about  her  eyes.    "O  it's 
terrible.    That's  just  it?    What  is  the  matter?" 

"What  is  the  matter  with  you?" 
<266> 


City  Block 

She  looked  at  him  straight.  "Nothing's  the 
matter  with  me.  I  want  to  help  him.  I  can't.  I 
know  I  can't  ever  help  him.  If  they'd  come  to 
me  and  say  Help  me!  I'd  do  whatever  it  was  .  . 
whatever  it  was.  He  won't.  He  won't  ask  nobody 
for  any  help.  He's  happy,  helpless." 

Dawson  pondered. 

"You  see  something,  Jane.  Something  deep. 
But  I  cannot  see  what  you  see." 

She  looked  at  him.  "Christ  isn't  in  it,"  she  mur 
mured. 

Dawson  was  still. 

"John,  don't  you  believe  in  Christ?" 

— Ashamed  again.  Ashamed  always!  "Jane 
dear,  I  don't  know.  I  think  I  believe  in  God.  I 
can't  quite  seem  to  say  when  you're  there,  I  don't 
believe  in  God." 

"I  don't  know  about  God  .  .  but  I  believe  in 
Christ." 

"I  don't  know  about  God,  either." 

"Father  Dennis,  he  says  no  one  can  know  noth 
ing  about  God.  He  says  that's  why  God  became 
Christ .  .  so  we  could  know  about  Christ.  He  says, 
Father  Dennis  does,  the  only  people  who  ever 
know  about  God  are  the  Jews.  He  says  that's 
why  they  don't  have  to  know  about  Christ." 

"To  be  saved,  does  he  say?  Jews  can  be  saved 
without  believing  in  Christ?" 

Jane  nodded.  She  was  very  sure.  "He  says  so, 
John." 

"You  have  long  talks  with  this  Priest  .  .  .?" 
<267> 


City  Block 

"Yes." 

"He  confesses  you?'' 

"Yes." 

"What  will  he  say  about  me?" 

"I  can't  ever  tell  you  that." 

"Why,  Jane?  why  not?"  he  was  plaintive. 

She  brought  her  face  closer.  She  clasped  her 
hands  harder.  "John  dear  .  .  dear  John,"  she  said, 
"you  won't  be  here  then,  will  you?" 

He  had  the  impulse  to  bury  his  head  in  his  hands 
.  .  to  weep.  — No,  no!  He  looked  at  her  instead. 

"Jane!  there  are  tears  in  your  eyes." 

She  smiled:  "This  is  the  first  time  you  ever 
saw  them " 

"Yes." 

"Because  yours  came!" 

Dawson  jumped  up.  "The  little  man!  the  little 
man's  words!  .  .  and  yours!"  — O  God,  let  me 
become  myself,  master  this  hurting  wonder.  A 
balm,  an  end! 

He  came  close  to  her,  took  her  shoulder,  lifted 
her  up,  standing  against  her  straight. 

"Jane,  you  do  love  me.  .  .  You  do  love  me,  don't 
you?" 

His  hands  hurt  her  flesh.  She  met  him  unfal 
tering,  gently. 

"John,"  she  said,  "we  don't  love  each  other. 
Don't  you  know  that?" 


<268> 


City  Block 


Three  days  John  Dawson  had  not  gone  to  work. 
He  must  see  the  little  man  who  walked  with  his 
Dream.  That  was  urgent.  He  knew  nothing 
about  him  save  that  he  lived  on  the  Block  and  taught 
school  and  walked  after  school  hours.  Nights  it 
would  be  hard  to  find  him.  Afternoon  was  the 
time.  He  paced  the  street,  back  and  forth,  where 
he  could  command  both  corners.  Yesterday  it 
rained.  Did  he  not  walk  in  the  rain?  Why  not, 
if  his  Dream  is  loveliness  serene?  Today  too  it 
rains. 

Three  days  John  Dawson  has  been  sick  in  con 
flict.  He  has  sought  Jane,  touched  her,  clasped 
her  shoulders,  her  hips.  "You  are  real!"  He  has 
run  away,  leaving  her  in  her  terrible  smiling  silence : 
himself  a  storm,  following  himself,  driving  him 
self  rather. 

— She  is  real.    I  felt  her.    I  have  felt  her  enough. 

But  he  could  not  be  sure.  The  little  man  must 
help. 

— I  am  not  real.  I  am  not  a  person.  How  can 
I  measure  her?  What  measure  have  I  except  my 
self?  Is  she  real  like  me  .  .  whatever  my  reality 
amounts  to  .  .  or  is  she  not?  That's  as  far  as  I 
can  go. 

He  looked  upon  his  life  with  a  strange  ironic 
acceptance.    — She  troubles  me,  not  I.    This  pro 
tuberance  upon  me  of  myself,  what  is  it,  what  is  its 
shape?    Upon  me!    Upon  what? 
<269> 


City  Block 

-The  little  man!  the  little  man! 

John  marches  in  the  rain. 

—I  won't  go  back!  If  I  touch  her  and  she  re 
sponds  to  my  own  vague  reality  what  have  I 
learned?  He  saw  her  on  the  street  .  .  once  with 
her  brother,  small  ruddy  man,  so  sure  and  so  weak. 
He  turned  aside  beyond  them.  Dimly  he  sensed 
himself  in  pain  and  in  travail.  — Better  go  home. 
Stick  it  out.  You've  got  money  enough  for  weeks; 
stick  it  out  in  your  room.  Or  take  another  room, 
if  that  one's  too  full  of  Jane,  whatever  she  is. 
Dimly  he  sensed  that  seeking  the  little  man  was  an 
evasion  from  the  whole  birth  of  himself.  But  that 
strong  he  was  not.  .  . 

It  rains.  The  little  man  comes  up.  Through 
the  slate-wet  air  there  he  is,  wrapped  in  a  raincoat 
glistening  black :  over  his  little  shoulders  a  cape,  on 
his  wide  white  head  a  hood.  Bobbing  along. 

Dawson  followed.  He  wore  no  coat.  It  was  a 
warm  June  rain.  His  rough  suit  sloughed  in  heavy 
folds  about  him.  His  slouch  hat  sluiced  the  water 
to  his  shoulders;  at  his  knees  the  wet  cut  like  a 
knife.  Dawson  followed.  He  was  furiously  intent, 
cunning  withal:  in  faith  that  at  the  moment  for 
accosting  the  little  man  he  would  know. 

They  marched  toward  Central  Park.  The  clear 
asphalt  walks  cut  and  swished  through  the  lawns 
like  sluggish  eels  upon  a  silent  sea.  The  trees 
stood  mournful,  bowing  in  the  watery  world.  Two 
men,  a  large,  a  small,  stood  in  the  strained  solitude 
and  talked. 

<270> 


City  Block 

"So  you've  come  back?"  the  little  man  looked  at 
him  unafraid. 

"Yes.  I've  come  back.  I  may  be  mad.  But  I 
don't  mind  with  you.  For  you  may  be  also." 

"What  do  you  want,  sir?" 

"I  want  your  help !  .  .  .  Now  look  here.  Don't 
be  afraid  of  me.  I'm  a  good  citizen.  My  name  is 
Evans.  I'm  an  engineer  by  profession  and  a  bit 
of  a  tramp  and  a  mechanic  by  choice.  For  ever 
or  for  a  while  .  .  I  don't  know." 

The  little  man  bowed  courteously.  "I  am  glad 
to  meet  you,  Mr  Evans.  My  name  is  Mr  Carber. 
Mr  Godfrey  Carber." 

"Thank  you!"  Dawson  spoke  warmly.  "You 
are  good.  .  .  And  perhaps  neither  of  us  is  mad. 
Will  you  help  me?" 

"What  can  I  do?" 

"Tell  me  .  .  this  girl  who  came,  just  after  I'd 
seen  or  felt  or  somehow  sensed  your  Dora  .  .  I've 
been  living  with  her.  She  is  loveliness  too.  Is  she 
real?" 

"Why  not?" 

"That's  where  you  can  help  me!  That's  just 
where  you  must  help  me !  How  can  I  know  ?  Look 
at  the  state  I'm  in.  Is  that  what  .  .  what  would 
come  of  dwelling  with  loveliness?  Look  how  sure 
you  are?  You're  happy." 

"Yes  .  .  yes,"  murmured  Mr  Carber. 

Dawson  stopped.  He  studied  this  little  man 
listening  vaguely,  weakly  to  his  words.  — You 
too?  Shamed  again  by  you?  Are  you  real  either? 
<271> 


City  Block 

Carber  nodding.  "Yes  .  .  yes,"  he  murmured. 
"Yes.  My  love  is  serene." 

"Because  it  has  no  reality  at  all?"  Dawson 
shouted.  He  was  sorry. 

Mr  Carber  looked  at  him  commiserating,  quiet. 
"Suffering  makes  you  say  wild  words,"  he  spoke 
softly.  "It  is  nothing,  sir.  I  forgive  you." 

Formally  he  bowed.  If  he  had  worn  a  hat  in 
stead  of  a  hood,  he  would  have  doffed  it  in  his  cour 
teous  gesture.  He  went,  unchanged,  half  lifted  in 
his  stride  above  the  glittering  wet  walk.  .  . 

Dawson  left  the  Park.  He  struck  toward  home. 
But  he  veered.  The  forking  carapace  of  streets, 
smoky  with  rain,  swung  him  off.  He  marched 
upon  it,  feeling  as  under  his  feet  the  meat  of  men, 
swollen,  pulsant,  compressed.  He  walked  into 
night.  Above  his  turbulent  thoughts,  gathered  in 
choke,  the  darkness  came  with  sureness  like  an 
omen.  He  walked  fast.  He  walked  far.  He  car 
ried  with  him  the  stifle  of  his  thoughts.  He  met 
everywhere  the  coming  down  of  night. 

"What  is  the  matter?  what  is  the  matter?"  he 
spoke  to  himself,  if  he  could  find  a  self :  he  let  out, 
rather,  his  words  in  that  vague  projectory  which 
makes  of  them  a  cry.  He  was  crying;  and  it  tor 
tured  him  in  his  articulated  life,  the  mature  sure 
joints  of  his  body,  his  senses,  his  mind,  that  he  was 
crying.  — I  am  a  man  and  I'm  sure  of  myself.  He 
tried  to  be  heartened.  —If  I  want  to  take  a  few 
years  off  from  my  sure  way,  can't  I?  If  I  want 

<272> 


City  Block 

to  have  a  love  affair  with  a  strange  sprite  of  a  girl, 
can't  I  ?    If  I  want  to  go  back — 

He  knew  that  he  was  lying.  Wasn't  his  silly 
search  of  the  little  man  enough?  Here  was  a 
strangeness  upon  him,  valid  and  saliently,  because 
it  was  the  world.  — That's  the  thing  to  admit !  The 
houses  cut  past  him,  rigidly  out  of  joint:  he  slipped 
through  houses,  streets  as  if  through  an  iron  shirt 
that  bit  him.  — Who  is  Jane?  He  tried  to  see 
this  girl  who  had  wrought  such  emptiness  upon 
the  ease  of  his  vagabondage.  He  had  not  thought 
of  her:  a  girl,  Irish,  living  with  her  brother,  why 
don't  she  marry?  .  .  not  more  than  that.  There 
upon  that  first  afternoon  she  rises  like  a  young 
tree  .  .  like  life  since  then,  like  all  this  changeling 
world  suddenly  salient  and  compelling;  suddenly 
unbearable  if  he  escaped  it  or  if  he  met  it.  "Jane, 
let  me  look  at  you,  Jane:  let  me  touch  you,  Jane. 
Let  me  know!"  The  words  were  liquid,  bubbles 
of  pain  from  the  large  sure  frame  of  the  man  cut 
ting  along  through  the  rain-blue  streets  of  New 
York. 

The  Block  .  .  the  stairs  .  .  her  flat.  He  knocked 
at  a  door. 

Jane  opened.  Her  silent  body,  clad  in  grey-blue 
wrap  over  her  throat  down  to  her  slippered  feet,  let 
him  in.  — Not  your  body  to  let  me  in,  now,  Jane. 
Where  are  you?  If  you  let  me  in,  I  may  find 
myself.  .  .  . 

'"You  are  wet!" 

<  273  > 


City  Block 

He  was  aware  of  the  little  streams  of  rain  run 
ning  from  him  to  the  floor. 

"Take  off  your  shoes,  your  socks  and  your  coat." 

"I  can  go  up— 

"No." 

She  left  him.  He  compressed  his  mind  to  this 
grateful  little  business.  Slowly,  carefully,  he 
leaned  over  and  took  off  his  wringing  shoes  and 
placed  them  under  the  hatrack;  he  pulled  off  his 
socks  and  took  off  his  hat  and  his  coat  and  folded 
them  away.  He  was  wet  to  the  skin,  but  he  no 
longer  dripped.  Something  in  him  was  sorry.  He 
moved  deliberate  as  if  before  him  was  a  door,  a 
door  of  execution,  some  parturient  death?  through 
which  when  he  no  longer  dripped  rain  on  the  floor, 
he  must  unalterably  pass. 

She  called  to  him:  "Go  into  the  kitchen  where 
it's  warm." 

He  saw  it  was  a  kitchen:  stove,  table,  plates. 
There  was  embracing  dryness. 

Jane  came  in:  a  grey  dress  now.  She  smiled. 
She  carried  his  wet  things.  She  hung  and  distrib 
uted  them  about  to  get  the  heat  of  the  stove. 

"You  won't  catch  cold?" 

"I  have  worked  ten  hours  in  a  River." 

"Stay  near  the  stove,  though." 

Her  eyes  were  bright.  All  else  of  her  was  dim. 
She  came  to  him,  so. 

He  held  her  a  moment  in  his  arms.  He  did  not 
kiss  her.  He  saw  the  print  of  his  wet  shirt  on  her 

<274> 


City  Block 

waist,  the  wet  straggle  of  her  hair  from  him.  — She 
is  real,  then! 

"Jane,  the  only  way  I  can  explain  what's  hap 
pening  to  me  is  that  I  love  you." 

She  sat  down.  The  print  of  his  wetness  on  her 
seemed  to  gladden  her.  She  was  less  dim.  She 
was  a  flower  watered. 

"What,  John,  has  happened?" 

"I  try  to  think  what  has  happened.  .  ." 

Suddenly,  he  was  weak.  He  stood  there  tremu 
lous  of  knee,  and  tried  to  think.  Jane  was  up.  She 
brought  a  chair.  He  collapsed  in  it.  "I  have  been 
suffering,"  he  said.  Then  he  looked  up.  He  was 
calmer.  The  air  was  dry.  The  wet  of  his  clothes 
sheathed  him  like  steel,  but  the  air  and  himself 
were  dry. 

"I  am  beaten,  Jane.  I  challenged  something. 
I  don't  know  what.  I  am  beaten." 

She  sat  calm.  But  he  saw  the  throbbing  of  her 
throat.  Her  eyes  were  still,  almost  a  glaze  was 
on  them  in  their  dryness. 

"I  see  that  you  feel  sorry  for  me,  Jane.  That's 
probably  all.  I  thought  I  was  master  .  .  a  sort  of 
knight-errant.  You  don't  understand?  Well,  a 
sort  of  man  who  could  break  open  Castles  and  kill 
Ogres.  I  could;  I  did.  I'm  a  damn  good  Builder, 
I  tell  you.  I  thought  I'd  swept  you  with  a  gesture 
of  love  into  my  arms.  I  was  fooled.  You  with  a 
gesture  of  pity  take  me  into  yours.  You  .  .  and 
that  mild  idiot  with  a  Dream  called  Dora  .  .  you've 
done  for  me.  That's  all." 

<275> 


City  Block 

"Not  all,"  she  said.  "I  don't  understand  what 
you're  saying.  But  I  know  what  you  say  isn't  all." 

"I  am  done  for.    I  cannot  stand  it." 

"You  must  eat  .  .  you  must  grow  up." 

"Will  you  feed  me,  Jane?" 

"The  coffee's  ready.  You'd  better  not  eat  till 
you're  dry." 

They  sat  in  silence  while  he  drank  his  cup.  She 
let  him  have  a  half  of  a  slice  of  bread.  He  ate  and 
drank  slowly.  He  was  not  hungry  at  all.  He  had 
not  eaten  for  days. 

—I  am  a  beggar.    Beggars  get  nothing. 

"Jane,"  he  put  down  his  cup,  "what  can  I  give 
to  you?" 

Then  her  eyes  changed.  Steadfast  and  glazed 
and  dry  they  had  been,  watching  him,  holding  him 
there,  his  turbulence  contained  in  her  blind  wit. 
Now  they  changed.  They  were  soft  and  green. 
They  were  a  little  moist. 

She  got  up.  .  .  A  noise  at  the  latch.  The  door 
thrust  open,  thrust  them  apart  into  two  corners 
of  the  kitchen. 

Peter  stepped  in  to  the  room.  Peter  bowed 
vaguely.  Short,  shorter  than  Jane  and  heavy, 
Peter  stood  there  balanced  in  this  equation  of  puz 
zlement  about  him.  He  too  was  wet.  His  round 
boyish  face  glowed  with  the  liquor  in  him.  His 
blue  eyes  were  lost  in  their  daze.  His  gentle  mouth, 
too  small,  twitched  and  his  fleeting  chin  wrinkled 
with  his  effort  to  be  calm. 

<276> 


City  Block 

"Hello,  Mr  Dawson,  Hello  ...  I'm  glad  to 
see  ye." 

"Sit  down,  Peter,"  said  Jane.  "I  caught  .John 
sopping  and  made  him  come  in  and  fed  him  a  cup 
of  coffee.  Want  some?" 

"No."  The  boy  saw  the  big  man  coatless,  bare 
foot.  A  vague  of  irritation  swept  him.  But  he 
sat  down. 

"Peter,  I'm  glad  you  came  when  you  did!  I 
want  to  talk  with  you,"  Dawson  stepped  closer. 

— A  man!  a  man!  He  could  be  master  with  a 
man!  Master  again.  He  was  glad.  He  stood  at 
his  full  height  and  his  bare  feet  made  him  taller  to 
himself,  before  this  man  whose  weakness  was  to  let 
him  be  master  again.  That  which  was  breaking  in 
him  .  .  builder  of  bridges,  leveller  of  castles  .  . 
strode  in  one  convulsive  effort  together  in  him, 
coalesced,  made  itself  whole  once  more  from  the 
despair  of  fear  for  the  ultimate  moment  of  disso 
lution  it  had  glimpsed  before  Peter  came  in. 

"What  is  it,  man?"  Peter  was  comfortless.  He 
felt  the  strain  and  the  strangeness.  He  could  not 
be  sure  if  it  was  a  reality  about  him  in  these  two 
usually  normal  persons,  or  in  himself  in  drink. 
This  hurt. 

"I  want,"  said  Dawson,  "to  tell  you  about  Jane 
and  me."  — That  is  it!  Make  Peter  a  party. 
Peter  .  .  earthy  boy,  no  Dream,  no  Christ  in  him  .  . 
if  he  can  hold  it,  if  he  can  see  it,  it's  true.  Let 
Peter  prove  it! 

He  watched  him  mumbling  in  surprise :  " — about 
<277> 


City  Block 

you  and  Jane?"  He  was  an  earthy  man.  Simple 
and  perfect.  Solid  and  short  and  clear. 

Dawson  eased  himself  on  his  feet,  and  his  hands 
clenched:  "Jane  and  I  .  .  three  weeks  ago,  some 
thing  happened  between  us.  Don't  let's  give  it  a 
name." 

He  saw  her,  still  in  her  corner  where  she  had  not 
moved.  He  saw  her  brother  tense.  "We — I  want 
you  to  know,  Peter.  So  you  can  understand.  You 
love  Jane  too.  And  she  you.  It's  right,  somehow, 
not  to  keep  you  outside:  that's  what's  been  trou 
bling  me." 

Peter's  hand  went  to  his  brow.  He  did  not 
understand.  What  was  this  muddle? 

"It  came  sudden,  strong.  It  has  gone  on. 
We " 

"Why  don't  you  out  with  it,  then?  Why  all 
this  fuss?  You're  going  to  marry,  I  suppose? 
Well— if  Jane- 

"No,  Peter.  There's  not  been  any  of  that," 
Jane  spoke  from  her  quiet  place. 

"Any  of  what?" 

"Any  of  marriage.  I've  been  going  to  his  room. 
I've  been  living  with  him,  Peter.  See?  Nothing 
more " 

The  brother  sprang  up.  "Nothing  more!"  His 
hands  wrung  round  in  a  frenetic  circle.  "Nothing 
more!"  He  could  not  face  them  both  at  once.  He 
swung.  "You've  been  living  together!  You, 
Jane  . .  you  a  whore?  You  cad,  you!"  He  stopped 

<278> 


City  Block 

in  front  of  Dawson.  "Who  in  hell  are  you?  .  . 
what  in  hell  right " 

"Keep  still,  man." 

"You  tell  me  to  keep  still!" 

Peter  poised  back  in  an  ominous  pause  and 
hurled  himself  at  Dawson's  throat.  Dawson  bent 
in  the  impact.  His  hands  moved  swiftly  for  a 
hold  on  the  scrimmaging,  fighting  wild  man  at  his 
flesh.  He  grappled  him,  flung  him  in  a  furious 
heap. 

Peter's  head  hurled  against  the  table's  edge. 
He  crumpled  below  it,  crimson  in  his  blood. 

The  standing  man  and  the  standing  woman  were 
still.  The  room  was  between  them  . .  and  the  move 
less  body  crimson  in  its  blood. 

"I've  killed  him,"  said  Dawson. 

Jane  was  above  her  brother.  Her  hands  were 
red.  She  got  up.  Her  eyes  and  her  face  broke 
into  despair.  She  cried.  She  tore  down  her  hair. 
She  stained  her  face  and  her  dress  with  her  broth 
er's  blood.  She  said  no  word.  She  was  broken 
and  very  ugly. 

He  saw  her. 

— This  is  the  reason  and  the  end  of  John  Daw- 
son!  He  felt  calm.  His  stomach  was  empty  and 
his  head  was  clear.  — This  is  the  End? 

— Red-eyed  ignorant  girl.  Mad  with  your  ani 
mal  grief.  Vulgar.  Terrible  .  .  vulgar.  You  are 
not  lovely.  You  were  a  dream.  Thanks,  Peter. 
Sorry  you're  dead.  What  of  it?  Soon  I'll  be  too. 
Dawson  will  follow  Evans.  A  little  less  subtly. 
<279> 


City  Block 

That's  right.  Evans  just  disappeared.  Dawson, 
earthier,  solider,  needs  an  electric  chair  for  the 
same  process.  Thank  God  for  that,  though! 
Thank  God  for  that!  It  is  the  same  process  .  .  to 
put  an  End  to  it  all. 

He  turned  toward  Jane:  "There  is  nothing 
to  say.  I  am  going  to  give  myself  up  to  the  Police." 

He  looked  at  her.  She  was  back  in  the  same 
corner:  she  stood  as  within  the  whirl  of  a  mael 
strom:  rigid,  still. 

"Good  bye,"  he  said.  She  did  not  move.  He 
left. 


Slowly,  with  unbroken  unhesitant  gait  John 
Dawson  walked  to  the  corner  of  the  Block.  He 
stopped.  He  turned  about.  Slowly,  with  unbroken 
unhesitant  gait,  the  man  walked  back. 

He  mounted  the  stairs.  He  came  into  the  room 
for  he  had  left  the  door  unlatched  behind  him. 

Nothing  had  changed.  The  bloody  body  lay 
upon  the  floor.  Jane  stood  stiff  and  wild  within 
her  maelstrom. 

"Jane,"  spoke  the  man,  "can  you  hear  me  ?  Jane, 
it  is  important  that  you  hear  me.  Give  me  some 
sign  .  .  a  nod  .  .  so  I  know  you  can  hear  me." 

He  waited.  Her  hand  lifted  faintly  and  fell 
back.  Her  eyes  were  looking  nowhere. 

"Thank  you.  I  have  come  back,  Jane,  for  you. 
I  know  you'll  know  I've  not  come  back  because 
<280> 


City  Block 

I'm  afraid  of  prison.  I've  come  back  because  when 
I  was  walking  toward  jail  out  there  .  .  it  all  seemed 
so  marvelously  simple,  so  sweet:  giving  myself  up, 
putting  the  State  to  the  trouble  of  getting  rid  of 
me,  freeing  myself  even  of  that  effort.  So  sweet 
and  easy.  And  then  something  happened,  Jane.  I 
began  to  think  of  you."  She  stirred.  "And  the 
ease  of  shuffling  off  was  horrible.  So  I  came  back. 
I  don't  know  what  for.  To  ask  you  .  .  what  can 
I  do?" 

He  looked  at  her.    He  could  not  read  her  eyes. 

"Jane,  I'm  no  use  to  myself.  I'm  a  failure. 
I'm  not  a  person.  I  don't  know  why.  Perhaps 
something  was  left  out  of  my  food  as  a  child  .  . 
that  kept  me  from  becoming  a  man.  But  can  I 
be  of  some  use  as  a  tool?  Something  you  can  use? 
O  I  hope  so!  O  Jane,  if  in  any  way  you  can  use 
me,  do!  Don't  despise  me  so  much,  Jane.  Use 
me — living  or  dead.  If  you  can.  Of  course,  if 
you  can't — if  I'm  not  even  good  for  a  tool " 

The  girl,  rigid,  ugly  in  her  corner.  — She  suf 
fers  !  Sudden,  he  felt  her  suffer.  Her  pain  was  a 
flood  from  within  him.  Her  pain  washed  him  pain 
less.  He  leaned  on  the  warm  flood  of  pain.  He 
stood  straight.  But  in  his  suffering,  he  seemed 
prone.  .  . 

Jane's  face  opened.  She  moved,  easeful,  as  if 
she  had  not  been  encased,  a  moment  before,  in  a 
whirlwind. 

She  left  the  room.  She  came  back.  She  carried 
in  her  hands  a  bundle  of  towels  and  a  little  crystal 

<281> 


City  Block 

bottle.  She  took  a  basin  and  filled  it  with  warm 
water  from  the  kettle  on  the  stove.  She  knelt 
beside  her  brother.  She  lifted  his  bloody  head  in 
her  arm,  to  her  lap.  She  bathed  his  scalp,  his  hair, 
his  face.  They  were  clean.  She  laid  his  head  on 
the  floor,  tenderly  upon  a  towel.  She  held  the 
crystal  bottle  to  his  nose. 

Peter  opened  his  eyes  .  .  looked  vague,  sleepily 
about  him  .  .  closed  them  again. 

She  stroked  his  brow.  She  took  another  towel 
and  bound  the  wound  in  the  scalp.  She  looked  up 
at  her  man. 

"Beloved,"  she  said.  "He's  asleep.  Nothing 
more — just  a  cut.  Peter's  got  too  much  blood  at 
any  rate."  She  smiled.  "Will  you  help  me  carry 
him  to  bed?" 


<282> 


THIRTEEN 

ECCLESIA   SANCTAE    TERESAE 


MY  Desire  is  within  me.  .  He  walks  toward 
the  Block  where  is  his  Church  and  his  home. 
— Does  my  Desire  come  because  it  is  Christ 
mas  Eve?  But  there  is  no  such  thing  .  .  I  am  a 
priest!  .  .  as  Christmas  Eve.  My  Desire  is  real. 
You  are  right  to  be  a  priest. 

The  Elevated  structure  is  high  here.  He  had 
stood  on  the  car's  platform  swinging  in  a  vast 
pendulum  above  houses.  The  rails  swung  him 
straight  as  in  a  circle's  segment:  but  the  street 
sank,  the  houses  thrust  up  higher  in  a  sort  of  frenzy 
to  meet  him.  The  train  panted,  raced  away:  the 
city  thrust  up.  They  were  joined:  train,  blind  sky, 
the  street  and  himself  so  hazardously  caught  in  the 
pendulous  swing  of  the  platform  of  the  car.  Gate 
opened.  He  stepped  out:  a  shell  of  wood  holding 
him  high  from  falling.  He  goes  downstairs  and 
he  is  somewhat  dizzy. 

The  street  is  dark  with  grey  sidings  of  snow. 
The  people  move  and  clutter  between  stone  and 
sky.  The  people  are  one  color.  Between  the  arch 
of  rails  and  the  black  shadows,  they  are  like  crea 
tures  in  a  secret  .  .  spoiled  by  a  secret.  — They 
who  are  naught  and  who  think  naught  are  in  the 
secret.  I  who  think,  am  outside.  Because  I  think? 
What  do  you  mean  by  that,  God?  He  walked. 

<285> 


City  Block 

And  as  he  walks  the  splendor  of  this  world  is  sheer 
unbearably.  — This  dirty  noisy  street,  I  wouldn't 
live  in  it :  what  splendor !  The  houses  stand  like  the 
lips  of  a  Mask  and  the  crowd  is  words.  And  all  of 
it  dark  splendor. 

—My  Desire  is  with  me.  When  I  first  looked 
within  me  to  my  Desire,  I  saw  yellow  and  hard. 
Gold !  I  have  tried  to  make  my  life  a  humble  shin 
ing  and  a  humble  sureness  against  Gold.  I  have 
looked  deeper.  What  is  this  Gold?  Strands  writhe 
in  a  dim  flesh  like  twisted  rays  of  a  sun  strayed  into 
night.  Within  my  soul,  if  I  look,  I  see  entrails  of 
my  belly.  So  I  have  tried  to  make  my  life  a  glow 
to  blind  flesh,  a  stir  to  dead  flesh.  .  . 

He  was  tall  and  straight.  — So  often  as  I  walk, 
I  walk  beside  my  mother.  .  .  "You  must  be  rich, 
Luis.  In  this  country,  when  you're  not  rich  there's 
no  use."  —This  land:  then  I  won't  be  rich!  I 
see  you,  mother,  lest  I  hear  you.  The  one  blots  the 
other  out,  seeing  is  better.  He  walked  the  steep 
street  and  there  were  few  of  the  human  words 
churning  about  him,  so  clear  as  he,  so  straight.  He 
wore  his  habit  well.  The  black  warmed  the  ivory 
coolness  of  his  face:  the  little  circling  collar  made 
his  jaw  fine  and  square.  He  wore  no  gloves  and 
his  hands  lay  calm  in  the  cold  air.  It  was  the  dark 
of  the  afternoon:  the  terrible  new  dark  after  the 
winter  sun  when  the  street  shudders  and  rends  itself 
with  fear  at  its  new  loss.  No  sun,  no  wind.  The 
city  glowed  in  its  own  fertility:  frightened  to  find 
itself  so  suddenly  alone  and  so  suddenly  alive  under 

<  286  > 


City  Block 

a  stony  sky.  The  lights  muttered,  feet  wove,  the 
eyes  of  men  and  women  were  sharp  threads  in  a 
weave  that  was  the  swing  of  the  street  and  of 
the"L." 

He  walked.  — I  hear  my  name.  Luis  Ajala 
Dennis.*  Is  that  a  word?  am  I  a  word?  and  which 
is  hard  to  pronounce?  The  crucifix  on  the  breast 
of  the  Pope  or  his  guts  .  .  which  is  real?  Saint 
Simeon  Stylites  testifies  that  words  hard  to  pro 
nounce  are  sweet  on  the  Tongue  of  God.  So  I  may 
pass.  Wealth  enough  for  you,  mother,  if  I  pass. 
Why  you  don't  know,  mother !  Even  the  whites  of 
my  eyes  gleam  yellow,  even  my  dung  is  amber. 
Am  I  not  rich  enough  for  you,  my  mother?  .  .  It 
is  Christmas  Eve.  And  I  don't  know  if  Christmas 
ever  was.  I'm  a  good  priest.  He  turned  the  angle 
swiftly  to  the  Block. 

At  the  head  of  the  dark  stairs  was  the  door  of 
his  room.  A  shadow  stood  fumbling  before  the 
door:  stood  thick  between  the  stair  and  his  room. 
Luis  came  up.  Behind  him  the  gas  light  threw  a 
scatter  of  ghosts  of  light  like  the  chimes  of  gilt 
bells  on  the  sombre  form  of  a  man. 

"Oh!" 

"Excuse  me,  father  Dennis.  I  just  knocked  at 
your  door.  And  you  were  not  there." 

"I  am  here." 

*The  priest  always  pronounced  and  insisted  that  his  friends  pro 
nounce  the  middle  name,  .the  name  of  his  mother,  .in  the  true  Castil- 
ian  accent  which  she  spoke:  the  stress  forward  on  the  A  and  the  j 
aspirated  hard,  somewhat  like  the  German  ch. 

<287> 


City  Block 

The  priest,  from  the  chaos  of  his  questions  of  the 
world,  drew  in:  drew  in  solid. 

"Mr.  Kandro?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Come  in."  .  .  . 

Clicket  of  keys  on  ring,  creak  of  latch,  swing 
of  door  .  .  more  splinters  from  the  chaos  drawing 
together  the  priest. 

"Just  a  moment.    I'll  have  a  light." 

There  was  a  light.  A  light  in  the  room  and  they 
two  in  the  room  that  was  about  the  men:  but  the 
light  seemed  beyond  the  room :  it  fell  into  this  shut 
warm  place  with  its  books  and  its  rug  and  its  mel 
low  wooden  Christ  above  the  mantel,  like  a  stroke 
from  outside.  The  dun  shade  holding  the  lamp  on 
the  littered  table  was  but  a  directer  obstacle  in  the 
flung  lance  of  the  light  holding  it  sheer.  The  light 
swam  in  broken  ripples  to  all  else  .  .  even  the  wav 
ing  ceiling,  even  the  black  beard  of  the  man  and 
the  gold  face  of  the  other. 

Luis  touched  a  chair. 

"Won't  you  sit  down,  Mr  Kandro?" 

He  was  as  tall  as  the  priest,  but  all  thick,  all 
dark,  all  knotted  and  all  cloud.  He  looked  at  the 
Christ.  There  were  three  men  in  the  room. 

Before  the  Christ  burned  two  altar  candles  low 
in  the  thick  glass  sockets.  His  wood  was  a  running 
song:  bits  of  paint  red  and  gold  lay  on  the  run 
ning  of  his  wooden  form  like  petals  on  water. 
Christ  was  slender  and  warm  above  his  little  flames. 
His  face  was  thin  and  the  lips  had  a  cleft  in  them. 

<288> 


City  Block 

Sweetly  he  raised  an  arm:  its  wrist  was  handless. 

"You'll  sit?    Pray  sit  down,  sir." 

The  heavy  form  of  Mr  Kandro  trembled,  moved 
forward. 

"Father  Dennis,"  he  said  and  he  thrust  forth 
his  hands  below  the  Christ  on  the  mantel.  "Look 
at  them." 

Luis  looked.  The  hands  of  Mr  Kandro,  coming 
from  black  sleeves,  looked  red. 

"How  do  they  look?" 

"They  look  red,"  said  Luis. 

Mr  Kandro  raised  his  hands  and  laid  them  like 
two  pains  upon  his  cheek.  Faintly  he  swayed  his 
head.  He  let  them  fall. 

"That's  what  I  thought,"  he  murmured. 

"Mr  Kandro  .  .  this  is  no  time,  this  is  not  the 
place  for  Confession." 

"I  am  not  asking  absolution,  sir.  I  am  not  ask 
ing  Confession.  I  wanted  your  eyes  .  .  for  their 
color." 

The  young  man  watched  him :  gentle  man,  muf 
fled  as  in  a  warm  black  cloud.  — Thunder-cloud? 
Possibly.  .But  he  is  soft  like  a  child.  Luis  sat 
down. 

"Come,  have  a  chair.  You'll  smoke  a  cigar? 
I'm  not  in  a  hurry." 

"Thank  you,"  Mr  Kandro  sat.  "I  don't  smoke 
either." 

Seated  face  to  face  beneath  the  mantel  and  the 
third  man  there,  they  were  small.  The  Christ  rose 
cool  and  sharp:  Mr  Kandro  a  dark  word  .  .  a 
<289> 


City  Block 

mumbling  as  of  a  vague  surmise  in  the  room's  dark 
breath.  And  the  room  wavered  and  turned,  it  was 
astir  mutely  in  this  alien  light  that  lanced  upon  it 
from  Space. 

No  word.  No  word.  They  sat  beneath  the  man 
tel.  The  young  man  straight  and  white:  the  older 
huddled  like  his  mouth  in  his  beard,  blackly  within 
the  room.  Before  him,  limp,  hung  his  huge  soft 
hands.  They  looked  red. 

A  sharp  tremor  jerked  his  hands  up  .  .  let  them 
fall.  "Father,"  he  spoke,  "I  am  sixty-five  years 
old  .  .  and  I  have  never  lain  in  the  arms  of  a 
woman."  Silence.  He  spoke:  "Father,  I  have 
come  to  know  that  I  shall  never  have  this.  I  have 
lived,  lived  on,  thinking  almost  without  thought: 
'it  will  be.'  Now,  it  has  come  to  me  that  it  will 
never  be." 

"What  have  your  hands  done?"  Luis  whispered. 

"They  have  done  nothing.  .  .  And  you  saw  them 
red." 

"Why  do  you  come  to  me?"  Luis  leaned  forward. 

"You  are  a  priest.  .  .  You  also  never  have  lain 
within  a  woman's  arms.  Or  if  you  have,  it  was  a 
sin  and  is  gone.  That's  why  I  come  to  you.  I 
want  you— 

"Yes?" 

"Tell  me  that  I  am  not  cursed  with  this!  Tell 
me  why  you  saw  my  hands  red  .  .  hands  that  have 
done  nothing  .  .  if  I  am  not  cursed." 

-  I  must  lean  back  in  my  chair.     I  must  shut 
my  hands  into  fists  so  that  no  part  of  me  flows 

<290> 


City  Block 

out!  This  man  has  sucked  me  .  .  what  does  he 
want?  .  .  from  myself.  Myself!  What  madness 
does  he  want  of  me  for  himself? 

"You  are  not  cursed.  You  should  know  better 
than  that." 

"How  do  you  know?"  he  pleaded.  "Do  you  see 
the  color  of  my  soul?  My  hands  .  .  aren't  they 
red?" 

"You  are  in  love  with  sin?" 

The  old  man  was  moveless. 

"Give  me  what  you  know!" 

"Why  should  you  think  that  I  can  give  to  you? 
What  do  I  know  of  your  life?  what  do  I  know  of 
your  reasons?" 

"No  woman " 

"Have  you  loved  a  woman,  then?" 

Mr  Kandro  nodded.  "Long  ago.  And  she  .  ." 
his  voice  sharpened:  "Never  mind  the  story.  I 
have  been  true  to  my  hurt.  I  have  been  true  to  my 
pride.  And  so  my  hands  are  red?  Is  that  what  the 
Church  teaches?" 

Luis  bent  forward.  "Hush!  Who  knows  what 
She  teaches?"  — And  you  perhaps  wiser  than  I. 

"Think!  Think,"  cried  the  old  man.  "A  woman's 
body  is  a  white  straight  thing.  It  is  a  healing  we 
can  take  whole  upon  us.  It  can  touch  every  pore 
of  our  aching  hungry  body  .  .  touch  me  all  with 
her  white  straight  healing!" 

"Go  get  a  woman!  You  are  mad  with  your 
desire!" 

Mr  Kandro  came  forward  from  his  chair.  He 
<291> 


City  Block 

did  not  rise.    He  moved  near.    He  came  close.    He 
was  on  his  knees,  coming  close. 

— Go  away!    Who  are  you?    Go  away! 

"I  know  how  I  can  be  cured  of  my  desire,"  he 
said.  "Tell  me  of  yours. " 

— Sit  still!  Luis  fought  the  need  of  rising,  of 
running,  of  striking. 

"I  am  a  priest.  But  I  am  a  man,"  he  said. 
"When  the  waves  tide  up,  I  pray  and  I  work. 
What  mystery  in  this?" 

"Is  it  Pride  and  the  love  of  your  Hurt  that  keeps 
you  also  away  from  the  white  healing?" 

The  words  came  very  low  from  the  strange  black 
heap  at  his  feet.  They  came,  and  they  entered  the 
young  man.  He  saw  his  mother. 

.  .  .  "You  must  be  rich,  my  Luis.  You  must 
be  great.  I  want  it.  You  are  handsome  and  bril 
liant.  You  will  go  far.  You  will  marry  wealth. 
You  will  come  to  power." 

— My  mother,  I  see  you.  And  your  words  are 
quenched. 

"I  dream  for  you,  son." 

— Mother,  I  dream  away  from  the  sight  of  you. 
Let  me  humble  and  poor  and  lone,  since  your  words 
crowd  so  close  to  my  heart ! 

"Get  up,  Mr  Kandro." 

The  old  man  obeyed. 

Father  Dennis  paced  the  room.  He  paced.  He 
stopped  from  pacing.  .  .  — Still  a  little  dizzy.  The 
street  beneath  the  plunging  train,  houses  up-thrust, 
and  the  fact  of  Christmas  Eve  .  .  does  it  exist  after 

<292> 


City  Block 

all?     He  passed  his  hands  through  his  fine  hair, 
thinking:  — why  is  it  not  more  strange? 

— This  face  before  me!  I  step  up  to  see  this  face 
beneath  its  beard,  more  clear.  .  . 

— The  face  is  gone.  The  body,  is  it  still  crouched 
in  the  chair  or  kneeling  before  me?  .  .  flat  wide 
knees  on  my  rug?  They  are  gone!  My  words: 

"Look!  What  if  you  have  sinned  in  abstinence 
more  deeply  than  the  lowest  lecher?  What  if  I  am 
sinning  in  my  holy  state  .  .  dreaming  incestuous 
dreams  that  all  my  blood  and  all  my  entrails  blan 
ket  from  my  mind?  What  of  it?  Who  cares  about 
Sin?  Not  Christ,  surely!  Not  Saint  Paul!  Not 
our  holy  Mother  Church  that  blots  Sin  out,,  insig 
nificant  and  mean,  before  a  word  .  .  for  a  candle!" 

.  .  .  He  had  had  these  words!  The  old  man's 
face  very  white  in  the  dark  room,  in  the  dark  beard. 
His  eyes  small,  boyish-blue,  and  the  red  lips 
glimpsed  in  the  black  bush  of  hair.  And  a  brow, 
smooth  like  the  hand  of  a  girl.  — These  words  I 
had!  Are  they, gone? 

Father  Luis  Ajala  Dennis  turned  his  head  about 
the  study  room  where  he  lived.  He  saw  the  wooden 
Christ.  He  went  to  him.  With  the  forefinger  of 
each  hand,  he  thrust  into  the  altar  candles,  put 
them  out.  On  his  fingers,  over  the  smart,  was  wax. 

He  sat  down. 

— What  are  the  words  that  I  have  said?  What 
are  you  doing  here,  you  darkling  man?  But  he's 
gone!  Who  sent  you,  eh?  But  he's  gone!  he  is 
here!  Pushed  out  beyond  the  presence  of  my  mind : 

<293> 


City  Block 

but  he's  here.  .  .  And  there's  another  presence  with 
me  too.  Not  yet  in  the  presence  of  my  mind  this 
one.  She  is  a  woman.  She  is  here.  She  is  coming  1 

A  knock.  He  goes  to  the  lamp,  lifts  the  flame 
to  its  full  height.  —It's  the  lamp  burning,  makes 
the  light.  Nothing  else.  He  knew  that  he  lied. 
A  knock.  He  goes  to  the  mantel  and  gazes  at  the 
Christ.  He  relights  the  candles.  Kneeling,  he 
holds  his  face  prone  to  the  floor.  The  wooden 
Christ  rises,  still  flame,  in  his  shut  eyes.  A  knock. 
Luis  crosses  the  room. 

— Here  she  is. 

A  woman  stepped  in  with  the  street's  crystal 
colors  sparking  like  gems  from  her  hair  and  her 
cloak  and  her  skirt.  She  wears  no  hat.  She  has 
run. 

"Mrs  Lipper!     You-   -?" 

"May  I  come  in,  sir?" 

"Surely,  surely.  .  .  Mrs  Lipper ?" 

He  is  still.  The  woman  glides  full  into  the 
room,  drenches  herself  in  his  room,  drenches  herself 
in  the  light  that  gathers  at  the  lamp  but  comes  from 
afar.  .  .  She  is  full  in  the  room.  — And  I  am  in 
it  with  her. 

He  knows  this  woman:  wife  of  Clarence  Lipper. 
Her  name  he  has  often  admired  .  .  Aimee.  .  .  He 
is  good  at  names.  Names  count  for  him  who  bears 
the  name  of  his  mother  challenging  strong  when 
ever  the  name  of  his  father  is  spoken  by  him. 

"Yes,  my  friend?" 

She  is  a  little  woman.     Her  hair  is  dim  gold 
<294> 


City  Block 

and  her  eyes  are  dark  .  .  hard  gemlike  eyes  like 
an  animal's  astray  in  her  girl  face.  She  is  soft  and 
she  is  crisp  and  she  is  tender :  but  her  eyes  are  there 
.  .  rather  close  one  to  the  other  .  .  two  animals, 
now,  peering  and  strayed  and  afraid  in  her  warm 
girl  body. 

"O  .  .  you  are  so  comfortable  here!" 

— You  did  not  come  at  this  strange  hour  .  .  you 
too  .  .  to  tell  me  that? 

"You  must  excuse  me,  father." 

"For  what  must  I  excuse  you?" 

Her  throat  throbbed:  "That  I  am  here." 

"It  is  not  wrong  that  you  are  here,  my  sister, 
if  there  is  reason  for  it  .  .  if  you  have  need  of  me." 

— She  too  pulling  me  out  of  myself.  I  am  Luis 
.  .  Luis  A jala  Dennis  .  .  what  do  you  want? 

She  came  closer.  "O,  that  is  it!  I  have  such 
need  of  you." 

"Will  you  sit  down  and  tell  me?" 

"I  can't  sit  down.  Father  Dennis  .  .  father 
Dennis,  how  can  I  tell  you?" 

The  room  is  still,  the  room  is  still  and  full.  A 
prop  between  them  holding  them  up  is  the  room. 
It  is  gone!  He  sees  in  her  eyes  a  gap  .  .  and  a 
dizzy  falling. 

"I  am  worried,  father  Dennis." 

"Your  husband ?" 

"Not  about  him." 

"I  have  had  splendid  talks  with  Clarence  Lipper. 
I  like  him." 

"Thank  you." 

<295> 


City  Block 

She  smiles.  But  the  propping  substance  fades 
and  faints  and  falls. 

"He  deserves  much.  Doesn't  he,  father  Den 
nis?" 

"He  is  good.  I  think  he  loves  you  well.  With 
his  best  self,  I  mean.  What  you  mean  by  'deserv 
ing'  I  do  not  know.  Do  we  deserve  life?  At  the 
best,  do  we  deserve  this  splendor?  At  the  least, 
we  all  have  it.  .  .  More  than  we  deserve." 

She  drew  her  mouth  wryly.  — He  does  not  un 
derstand.  He  looked  at  the  words  he  had  just 
spoken  to  her.  — What  do  I  understand? 

But  her  mouth  is  full  again  .  .  round  and  soft 
like  a  berry,  like  a  magic  fruit  in  the  dark. 

"I  love  him  too.     And  that  is  it,  father  Dennis." 

"What?" 

"It  is  Christmas  Eve.  I  want  to  give  him  some 
thing." 

He  watches  her.  He  knows  what  she  does  not 
mean. 

"You  feel  .  .  you  have  never  given  him  .  . 
anything  at  all?" 

"Never,"  she  answered  clear.  They  were  close, 
standing  in  the  room.  And  now  at  last  there  was 
a  prop  .  .  true  words  .  .  to  their  upright  pres 
ence. 

"Never!  That  is  it.  Can  you  try  to  see?  He 
married  me.  What  was  I?  A  pretty  girl;  a  re 
spectable  girl.  That's  nothing  and  you  know  it. 
That  was  me.  And  we  have  lived  together  .  . 
peaceably.  He  goes  about  his  business.  He  is 

<296> 


City  Block 

away  a  lot.  When  he's  away  .  .  downtown  or  out 
of  town  .  .  I  wait  for  him.  I  keep  the  place  clean, 
I  keep  his  things  in  order.  If  he's  gone  long  I 
write  him  a  letter  or  two.  I  see  a  few  friends.  I 
go  to  a  play.  And  to  Mass.  I  pray  for  the  baby 
that  the  Virgin  soon  will  give  me.  O  I  know  that. 
Just,  not  yet.  Perhaps  she  is  waiting  .  .  that  is 
the  thought  I've  had  so  suddenly  today  .  .  before 
she  gives  me  that,  till  I  give  to  him/' 

"And  your  self  .  .  your  love  and  your  self  .  . 
have  you  not  given  him  these?" 

She  shook  her  head.  "I  thought  you  knew 
women!"  She  smiled. 

".  .  .  He  is  happy  enough.  He  has  joy  of  me. 
Surely.  But  giving,  giving!  I  am  the  taker.  He 
is  too  happy,  for  he  is  happy  giving.  If  I  could 
give  to  him  he  might  be  less  happy.  It  would  be 
better  so." 

She  sank  into  the  chair  where  the  other  man  had 
been.  Her  gold  head  bowed  so  that  her  eyes  were 
hidden. 

"I  do  not  understand,"  he  said.  But  he  stepped 
closer,  above  her. 

Her  eyes  looked  up.  Wild  eyes  clear  in  the 
room.  The  candles  of  Christ  danced  on  them  and 
the  lancing  light  drew  closer  to  the  lamp  from 
their  dark  brilliance.  With  her  eyes  on  him, 
quickly  she  stood.  They  are  close  now,  standing. 

— And  I  am  nowhere!  .  .  .  His  hands  were  cold 
and  bloodless  at  his  side.  Her  eyes!  Her  eyes! 
— The  white  straight  healing  that  she  is.  And 

<297> 


City  Block 

Sin?     What  is  Sin  but  a  lack,  a  great  Hunger? 

She  was  very  close  and  yet  she  did  not  swerve. 
There  at  her  arms,  the  fending  stuff  of  her  dress 
breaks  off  .  .  white  hands !  There  at  her  neck,  the 
bitter  stuff  of  her  dress  breaks  off  .  .  white  throat, 
white  face!  Vestiges  .  .  sparks  of  the  white 
flame,  all  she. 

They  come  closer.  She  saw  him  watch  her 
hands.  She  placed  her  hands  behind  her,  but  she 
did  not  swerve.  His  hands  go  out  and  clasp  her 
hands  behind  her.  .  . 

Brow  to  brow,  mouth  to  mouth,  breast  to  breast. 
.  .  They  were  close.  And  so  they  remained. 

The  lamp  gave  its  word  .  .  the  far  and  source- 
less  light:  the  wood  Christ  sang  still  through  the 
room.  They  were  close.  They  were  close. 

Slow  like  parting  petals  of  a  flower,  they  were 
less  close.  — Soon  I  shall  see  all  this. 

"What  have  we  done?"  came  his  words  softly. 

She  sprang  to  him.  Her  arms  vised  him.  Her 
lips  were  hot  in  his.  Her  breasts  stood  white  in 
his  flesh. 

— Soon  I  shall  see,  I  shall  know.  .  . 

They  were  apart.    They  were  spent. 

"And  now?"  he  murmured. 

"Now,  I  must  go  home." 

"Now  .  .  go  .  .  home?" 

"I  must  tell  Clarence." 

"This?" 

She  smiled;  she  nodded.  Her  eyes  were  dif- 
<298> 


City  Block 

f  erent  eyes.     They  were  eyes  of  a  woman  wise  and 
sure  of  herself. 

"I  have  something  now  to  give  at  last  to  my  hus 
band!" 

She  held  out  a  hand.     He  clasped  it. 

"Thank  you,  father." 

— And  she  is  gone.  And  I  have  given  her  that 
which  she  can  give  to  her  husband! 

Luis  sank  in  his  chair.  — Something  at  last  to 
give!  .  .  have  I  said  these  words  she  spoke?  .  .  . 
I  do  not  feel  that  I  have  held  a  woman.  When  I 
feel  it,  I  shall  know  that  I  have  sinned.  .  .  — But 
you  have  given!  .  .  words  lancing  like  the  light 
from  a  far  distance. 

Luis  stood  up.  The  light  he  had  sensed  long 
lancing  within  his  room,  burning  the  lamp,  touch 
ing  the  Christ  to  life,  drew  him  up :  he  saw  whence 
it  came  for  his  eyes  were  at  its  source.  He  stood 
straight  in  his  room,  and  he  danced.  He  was  move 
less,  he  danced.  No  tremor  of  the  eye,  no  hand- 
twitch;  he  danced.  His  beating  heart  was  a  mar 
and  a  flaw  in  his  dancing.  He  danced  upon  the 
Past,  he  danced  upon  the  Future:  Time  was  the 
base  of  his  still  feet  slowly  dancing.  And  the  room 
and  the  quiet  of  its  breath  embraced  within  the 
arms  of  his  Church,  were  spaces  his  dancing  flesh 
leaped  over,  leaped  and  skipped.  .  .  He  danced. 
The  world  swung  up  and  down:  calm  swinging. 
Jerusalem  packed  with  prayer,  Rome  red  with  ar 
gument  .  .  sun  locked  with  moon:  a  stifled  wood, 
a  panting  sea  .  .  a  field  mad  with  light  and  each 

<299> 


City  Block 

blade  of  grass  in  the  field  singing  and  speaking, 
shining:  plaintive  dawns,  wide  sunsweeps  of  clean 
cities  waving  in  time.  .  . 

—But  you!  your  white  sweet  hidden  flesh! 
Where  are  you? 

He  yearned  for  the  embrace  that  he  had  dwelt 
in.  He  danced  before  it.  He  danced  past  it. 
He  could  not  touch  it. 

—I  do  not  feel  you.  And  I  want  to  feel  you! 
Sin!  O  splendor  of  your  flesh,  come  let  me  know 
you,  though  Sin  must  come  along. 

He  feels  no  thing.  He  is  back  once  more  in 
his  chair. 

—She  is  here.  Her  flesh  is  still  upon  my  own. 
There  is  no  sin,  there  is  no  Time  to  sin  in. 

He  could  not  bear  to  know  that  these  things 
were  not  yet. 

"Come,  Time,"  he  cried  aloud.  "Come,  Time! 
Come,  Sin!  Bring  with  you  knowledge  of  how 
sweet  was  her  flesh." 

He  went  to  the  door. — The  Church!  O  blessed 
savior  Church !  You  will  give  them  to  me ! 

And  like  a  frightened  boy,  he  rushed  praying 
down  stairs. 


<300> 


FOURTEEN 

BEGINNING 


Paolo  Benati  Speaks 


I  GAVE  these  stories  to  the  man  that  wrote 
them.  It  was  hard.  Many  times  after  I  had 
reached  him  I  lost  him.  I  was  not  alone  in 
trying  to  hold  him.  When  I  was  moved  to  give 
my  stories  to  him,  I  did  not  think  that  others  might 
demand  him.  I  began  leisurely,  nameless.  He 
had  no  thought  of  me,  no  belief  in  my  being.  He 
had  enormous  belief  in  his  own.  And  he  took  pride 
for  himself  in  what  I  gave  him.  So  my  will  weak 
ened  toward  him.  I  became  pale,  a  ghost  in  my 
need  of  giving  these  stories. 

At  last  I  found  him  rightly.  He  was  in  great 
anguish.  He  believed,  so  serious  a  displacement 
had  followed  so  vast  a  flood  of  conflict,  that  he  was 
destroyed  in  spirit.  He  said  to  himself:  "I  am  a 
failure.  I  am  of  those  sacrificed  and  consumed." 
I  waited.  He  said:  "I  accept  this.  I  am  a  fail 
ure.  So  be  it.  I  have  no  claim  on  other  than  my 
fate.  So  be  it.  .  .  There  is  no  injustice,"  I  heard 
him  say,  "there  is  God." 

Then  I  seized  him.  "Go  away,"  I  said,  "into 
some  quiet.  I  have  much  to  say  to  you.  I  am  a 
boy  and  from  your  standpoint  dead.  Perhaps  you 
are  what  you  call  a  failure.  Let  me  use  you,  since 
it  is  good  so.  I  can  promise  nothing,  save  that  I 
want  you." 

<303> 


City  Block 

He  gave  to  my  urgency  upon  him.  I  held  him 
tortured,  in  obedience.  It  was  good  to  see  him 
at  my  work:  on  a  train,  at  odd  hours  of  the  night, 
in  a  room  filled  with  the  green  tumult  of  drunken 
sailors.  .  .  At  all  times  he  was  an  instrument  I 
used  .  .  gradually  wearing  out,  bleeding  away  .  . 
but  a  good  tool. 

And  so,  now  that  I  have  delivered  myself 
through  him,  I  release  him.  I  tell  about  myself, 
place  myself  where  I  belong  among  these  lives 
that  have  born  me :  and  let  him  go.  For  there  are 
others  not  done  with  him:  one  in  especial  I  see, 
greater  than  I,  far  better  and  far  greater:  with 
dark  hot  old  eyes  .  .  my  own  are  young  .  .  one 
whose  breast  is  high  with  Song  as  the  trunk  of  a 
great  tree,  whose  mouth  is  heavy  with  Prayer  as 
a  vine  with  ripe  grapes.  This  one  approaches  to 
make  his  voice,  already  heard  at  times,  unintermit- 
tent,  Whole.  He  is  high  but  he  is  kind.  For  he 
has  paused,  looking  upon  me  with  a  sweet  fore- 
bearance,  until  I  have  done  with  my  scribe.  .  . 


My  name  is  Paolo  Benati. 

When  one  is  gone  after  but  fifteen  years  in  the 
Sun,  one  recalls  the  suns  of  one's  childhood.  My 
mother,  my  father  and  I  were  deep  down  in  a  boat 
carrying  us  from  Genoa  to  New  York.  The  boat 
had  smells :  they  were  to  me  living,  voluminous  and 
rolling.  Brown  smells  splashed  with  gold  by  day, 
black  smells  and  red  by  night.  My  mother  stood 

<304> 


City  Block 

between  the  smells  and  me.  The  boat  stopped  be 
fore  it  reached  New  York:  I  remember  one  sun 
upon  our  passage.  A  steep  hard  city  full  of  mel 
low  bodies.  They  moved  and  called  through  the 
tight  streets  like  silent  shadows  of  twilight  in  free 
fields,  caught  here,  fragmented,  moulded  by  the 
twisting  gutters.  .  .  I  remember  New  York  only 
as  the  world  I  lived  in  .  .  common  of  many  suns 
and  many  shadows  .  .  not  clear  like  that  town  in 
the  passing,  which  must  have  been  in  Spain. 

My  father  was  a  good  barber.  He  had  two  as 
sistants,  Romano  and  Cicero,  who  could  not  live 
without  him.  He  had  a  lazy  body:  his  mouth  and 
his  mind  were  not  lazy.  He  did  not  often  serve 
his  customers  himself.  But  they  all  came  because 
of  him,  and  Cicero  and  Romano  worked  because 
of  him :  and  so  he  was  the  real  boss  and  something 
of  his  person,  finer  than  the  mere  handling  of  razor 
and  shears,  went  into  the  service  of  each  customer 
who  came  and  who  came  again. 

From  when  I  was  very  small — and  I  did  not 
become  tall— I  knew  that  father  was  short  and  fat 
and  rather  funny  to  look  at.  His  curly  black 
hair,  parted  sharp  like  a  knife-edge  in  the  middle, 
shined :  his  face  was  red :  he  wore  upon  a  scarlet  or 
white  vest  a  chain  of  huge  gold  links  that  made  his 
uprising  stomach  very  clear  to  see.  And  yet,  since 
he  wore  the  chain  and  had  chosen  it  himself,  he 
must  have  wanted  this.  Father  took  joy  in  him 
self,  he  took  joy  even  in  his  stomach.  He  took 
joy  in  mother.  "Dear  old  ugly/'  he  called  her. 

<305> 


City  Block 

For  mother  was  ugly  and  dear,  and  older  than  her 
man.  Father  took  joy  in  life.  Only  I  made  him 
unhappy. 

"Why  don't  he  smile?  Well,  Paolo,  can't  you 
smile?  Lookit  us  two.  Your  handsome  Papa 
chained  to  this  ugly  peasant — look  at  the  old 
woman ! — and  loving  her,  and  turning  down  for  her 
all  the  pretty  girls  who  make  eyes  at  me  when  I 
sit  at  the  window  counting  change.  Now,  ain't 
that  funny?  Why  don't  you  laugh?" 

Mama  seemed  ugly  because  she  had  so  thick  a 
skin:  olive-green,  leathery,  always  a  little  oily. 
And  her  black  hair  was  a  mane — I  have  seen  her 
break  a  comb  in  it.  But  it  was  good  to  look  at 
mother.  Her  grey  eyes  were  deep.  Her  hands 
were  sweetly  cool !  Her  voice  was  low,  it  throbbed 
so  very  quiet.  No  wonder  father  who  was  young 
and  had  a  voice  like  a  cornet  loved  mother  who  was 
fertile  with  mellowness,  who  was  kind  and  deep 
and  quiet  like  a  harvest  field  .  .  ugly  Mama  whose 
smile  made  me  sad,  so  full  it  was  of  beauty. 

"He  will  smile  some  day,"  she  defended  me. 

"When?     When  he's  dead?"  mocked  father. 


It  was  strange  with  me,  I  know.  I  knew  it  bet 
ter  than  father  who  when  he  spoke  at  random  often 
spoke  true:  better  than  mother  who  knew  most 
when  she  was  still.  She  used  to  place  the  tips  of 
her  fingers  upon  my  eyes  and  hold  them  there: 
and  that  was  her  embrace. 

<306> 


City  Block 

What  first  did  I  feel,  feeling  that  it  was  strange 
with  me?  How  shall  I  make  this  clear? 

There  was  the  house  when  we  first  came  and  I 
was  four  years  old.  The  barber  shop  was  in  the 
basement  below  the  level  of  the  street.  An  iron 
rail  fended  the  brownstone  area-way  that  made  a 
small  recess  between  the  soiled  street  and  the  bright 
store,  all  glass  and  gilt.  Above  it,  the  house- 
high,  stolid,  with  its  monotonous  small  windows  like 
eyes  .  .  snake's  eyes  or  a  monster's  .  .  peering 
against  the  open  world  from  a  hot  swarm  of  se 
crets.  I  remember  when  I  saw  the  house,  and  I 
said : 

"Mama,  the  stone  house  will  break  down  on  the 
glass  store." 

Father  laughed.  His  laughter  did  not  hurt  me. 
"He  knows  nothing,"  I  thought  to  myself.  And 
I  knew  then  that  this  was  strange:  how  I  should 
know  what  my  father  laughed  at,  not  be  hurt  by 
his  laughter. 

I  was  afraid  of  the  store.  We  lived  above  it, 
behind  the  wall  of  stone  and  a  pair  of  the  peering 
window  eyes.  So  I  felt  safe.  I  stayed  very  much 
in  the  room,  alone.  And  all  my  thoughts  were  for 
the  little  shop  below  which  was  a  little  box  of  glass 
holding  my  father,  and  upholding  a  mountain  of 
dark  stone. 

I  thought  of  the  house  crashing  down,  and  the 
glass  box  crushing,  splintering  with  my  father, 
bright  like  it,  within  it.  He  seemed  to  me  very 

<307> 


City  Block 

brave.  "I  must  be  brave  too,"  I  said.  I  went 
down  to  the  shop. 

Father  was  alone,  for  in  those  first  days  Cicero 
and  Romano  had  not  come.  On  the  other  side  of 
the  door,  in  the  same  area-way,  there  was  a  car 
penter  who  hammered  but  who  had  no  glass  front. 
(Later  his  shop  became  a  part  of  ours  and  our  glass 
front  was  extended.)  Papa  stood  before  the  mir 
ror  and  with  fingers  daintily  curled  up,  he  combed 
his  hair. 

"Hello,  son,"  he  called  and  went  on.  "What 
is  it?" 

I  was  very  excited,  for  I  had  resolved  to  be  brave 
too,  and  here  I  was  in  the  shop,  being  brave,  with 
father  alone.  I  took  a  seat  and  did  not  say  a  word. 
A  man  came  in.  He  had  long  black  hair  beneath 
his  mouth  and  straggling  thin  grey  strands  above 
his  brow.  Father  cut  these  and  let  the  beard  alone, 
and  the  strangeness  of  this  seemed  right  to  my 
strange  mood. 

Father  let  me  alone.  I  swathed  myself,  sitting 
there,  in  the  sharp  air  of  the  shop — bayrum  and 
hair  and  perfume  and  men's  sweat.  I  said  to  my 
self:  "I  am  brave  too."  I  began  to  lose  the  loom 
ing  sense  of  the  house,  resting  on  glass  above  my 
head — so  fragile. 

Father  said:  "Paolo,  bring  me  a  towel?  Over 
there  .  .  see?  .  .  in  that  drawer." 

Next  year  I  went  to  school,  and  afternoons  I 
began  to  work  in  the  shop. 

<308> 


City  Block 

I  loved  it.  As  a  child  loves,  of  course:  not  ar 
ticulate  the  word,  not  articulate  the  need.  The 
shop  became  a  part  of  me,  of  my  sense,  of  my  life, 
of  my  growing.  That's  how  I  loved  it. 

The  high  house  of  stone  spread  out  on  each  side, 
making  a  wall  of  the  high  dark  City  Block.  The 
little  store  where  I  worked  was  a  core  of  crystal. 
It  upheld  the  wall  of  stone  with  its  sombre  secrets 
peering  through  blank  windows.  I  worked  in  my 
glass  store  .  .  chairs  in  brass  and  plush,  air  of  shoe 
polish,  alcohol,  hair  and  sweat  .  .  yet  it  was  sharp. 
The  world  of  stone  compressing  it  made  it  sharp, 
made  crystal  clear  this  little  place  trussing  the 
Block. 

I  was  good  at  shining  shoes.  I  shined  very  fast. 
I  used  little  blacking,  and  with  the  polishing 
cloth  was  swift  and  graceful.  Shoes  gleamed 
from  my  hands.  Men,  and  women  too,  came  and 
chatted  with  me  while  I  worked  fast.  I  did  not 
answer  them.  I  did  not  know  the  names  of  these 
men  and  women.  They  came  in  all  moods  .  .  that 
was  clear:  expectant,  opaque  to  possible  tomor 
rows,  sorrowful,  joyful.  They  came  in  tenderness 
or  broken  through  by  cold  lights  of  envy  or  shrunk 
with  black  fires  of  fear.  Often  they  were  familiar 
with  me.  They  used  my  name  .  .  Paolo,  Pauly, 
Paul.  I  did  not  know  how  in  my  not  knowing 
theirs  a  door  in  my  heart  was  open  whence  they 
passed  silently  in. 

I  worked.  Cicero  and  Romano  worked.  Father 
with  his  smiling  face  and  his  quick  mind  worked,, 
<309> 


City  Block 

too.  The  shop  hummed  like  a  machine  moving, 
crowded  with  force  to  move.  I  did  not  smile  as  I 
worked.  I  did  not  know  why  I  should  not  smile; 
I  did  not  know  why  I  was  working  there.  So  I 
was  not  happy,  although  I  lived  in  love.  My 
chamois  cloth  snapped  on  the  leather  shoe  knobs. 
It  snapped,  I  rubbed.  It  snapped  in  tune  with 
the  hard  click  of  scissors.  A  voice  came  in  me. 

— Pursue,  pursue.  3 

There's  a  great  white  cloud  after  you. 

Be  still,  be  still, 

Pretty  soon  and  the  Dream  comes  true 

If  you  will 

Be  true  and  be  still. 

.  .  .  something  like 

these  words.  I  did  not  understand.  My  mind 
took  these  sounds  .  .  they  were  never  quite  words, 
I  never  could  separate  words,  but  what  I  seemed 
to  hear  amounted  to  what  these  words  now  seem 
to  say  .  .  my  mind  failed  to  understand.  Yet  the 
words  contented  me.  They  came  when  Strange 
ness  was  most  strong.  The  shop  was  a  sharp  em- 
prisonment  and  I  afraid  of  the  Outside  and  the 
In.  Then  I  was  comforted.  I  knew  this  also 
strange,  since  my  mind  did  not  understand. 


.  I  have  no  history.  It  is  hard  for  me  to  speak 
at  this  last  when  I  must  speak  of  myself.  It  was 
so  easy  before,  speaking  about  these  other  men 

<310> 


City  Block 

and  women  who  suffered  and  joyed  and  lived,  who 
came  to  the  shop  .  .  shoes  to  be  shined  .  .  and 
went.  But  I  must  go  on.  I  have  no  history.  Yet 
I  must  fill  these  pages  with  myself.  I  must!  I 
also  do  not  choose.  I  am  no  master,  no  more  than 
you,  my  scribe.  I  too  am  blind  and  am  driven.  .  . 

One  thing  more,  from  the  very  outset,  I  knew. 
I  loved!  There  was  love  in  my  heart.  Like  any 
child,  the  words  good  and  bad  and  beautiful,  the 
word  God  came  to  my  ears.  I  accepted  them. 
They  had  meaning.  It  matters  not  what  meaning. 
They  were  important,  for  from  the  first  I  could 
use  them.  This  proves  that  there  was  also  .  .  be 
yond  the  blindness,  beyond  the  driving  .  .  Love. 

I  could  not  smile.  My  father  was  vexed  because, 
as  he  thought,  I  would  not  smile.  His  business 
prospered.  He  gave  me  money,  lots  of  money. 

"Buy  what  you  want,  my  son.  Go  ahead.  And 
if  that's  not  enough  for  what  you  want,  ask  me  for 
more.  Buy  what'll  make  you  a  little  jollier,  eh?" 

I  did  not  know  what  to  do  with  all  my  money 
.  .  dimes  and  dollar  bills  and  quarters.  I  brought 
them  to  my  mother. 

"Here,  Mama.  Papa  gave  me  this  again.  I 
had  to  take  it.  I'd  have  hurt  him " 

"Buy  something,  Paolo." 

"Mother,  what  do  I  want?" 

"No.  Keep  it,  then.  Some  day  you'll  want 
something,  son.  It  may  cost  losts  of  money  when 
at'laslfyou  want  something.  Save  your  money  till 


City  Block 

then.     Put  it  away.     It  may  be  a  watch  or  a  jewel 
—something  for  a  girl," 

"Mama,  I  obey  you.  But  I  shall  never  want 
something  to  give  to  a  girl." 

"Pooh!  at  your  age,  you  think  so.  Wait  till 
you're  older.  Wait  ten  years." 

"I  won't  be  older  in  ten  years,  Mama." 

"Paolo  dear,  when  you  talk  such  foolish  words, 
at  least  you  should  laugh  with  me." 

Then  I  laughed.  I  laughed  only  with  mother, 
alone.  And  she  never  told  my  father  that  I 
laughed. 

"He's  known  as  the  boy  that  don't  smile." 
Mama  looked  very  wise  and  shaking  her  head. 
"But  he  laughs — O  yes,  some  time."  She  was  glad 
in  her  secret.  She  did  not  say  that  often  I  laughed 
with  her. 

When  she  was  there  alone,  I  said  silently,  so  she 
did  not  hear:  "It  is  because  you're  so  funny,  Mama. 
It's  because  we're  so  funny  together.  You,  dear 
ugly  lovely  Mama  and  I,  your  son,  who  is  pretty 
like  Papa.  It's  so  funny  that  I  should  be  a  pretty 
boy  and  that  you  should  have  a  skin  like  the  young 
elephant  in  Central  Park." 

Later,  even  with  mother,  I  did  not  laugh.  I 
worked  for  father.  I  went  to  school.  At  nights  in 
my  room  in  the  high  stone  Wall  I  took  off  my 
clothes,  I  shut  off  the  light.  I  slipped  into  bed. 
I  was  with  the  Presence,  holy  and  awful,  that  let 
me  for  a  little  while  do  such  little  stupid  things  as 
to  work  or  to  go  to  school. 

<312> 


City  Block 

And  sleep.  I  loved  sleep.  I  loved  it  always, 
as  one  who  knows  that  very  soon  for  him  the  time 
ir  coming  when  he  will  sleep  no  longer. 

I  lay  in  bed  and  stretched  out  my  legs :  drank  in 
like  a  sweet  dark  wine  the  knowing  of  sleep.  I 
loved  to  be  very  warm  to  sweating,  under  many 
blankets.  I  loved  the  window  open  and  the  air 
cold,  and  so  sweating  in  bed.  I  gave  my  self  up 
to  great  heat  and  great  blackness. 

Then  I  awoke.  Silent  lightlessness.  I  breathed 
in  the  night.  We  breathed  together.  A  quiver 
against  the  perfect  night.  It  was  a  thought  of  sil 
ver,  running  silver-free  athwart  the  black  grain 
of  the  world. 

"What  is  it?  what  are  you?  what  do  you  feel?" 
.  .  it  was  a  silver  whisper. 

I  knew  it  was  ill  that  there  should  be  a  whisper 
against  stillness,  silver  against  black.  — You  must 
atone  for  this!  Perfection  was  broken.  I  moved 
along  a  widening  way  of  wrongness.  For  I  had 
asked  a  question  of  the  Night. 

I  knew  that  it  was  ill:  but  that  it  had  to  be.  It 
was  life.  All  life  a  whisper  or  a  shriek  .  .  silver 
or  red  .  .  against  the  silent  black.  All  life — I  am 
alive ! 

In  these  hours  I  knew  the  stories  of  the  men  and 
women  who  came  and  whose  shoes  I  shined.  In 
these  hours  I  felt  their  stir,  their  clamoring  word. 
I  felt  the  rent  of  pain  that  was  each  voice  of  their 
hearts,  each  word  of  their  minds  against  Night. 

<313> 


City  Block 

I  saw  the  blood  bleeding  as  they  moved  .  .  a  rent 
.  .  against  immobile  fate. 

" — To  bring  them  stillness,  to  bring  them  white 
ness,"  I  said.  And  these  words  were  not  a  gash 
upon  the  Night!  .  .  . 

I  forgot  my  words.  I  grew  slowly.  I  had  no 
history,  I  was  an  uninteresting  boy.  People  said 
of  me:  "He  shines  shoes  all  right"  or  "He's  a  good 
scholar"  or  "He's  a  pretty  boy  with  his  black  hair 
always  mussed  and  his  violet  grey  eyes  and  his  fine 
long  mouth — but  why  don't  he  play  with  the  other 
boys  and  girls?"  .  .  .  "Why  don't  he  laugh?"  .  .  . 
"Why  is  he  so  gloomy?" 

These  were  stupid  people  for  I  was  not  gloomy. 
My  mother  knew  better  than  this.  She  found  no 
fault  with  me.  She  was  reserved  and  happy  with 
my  being.  We  sat  together  evenings:  we  took 
walks  in  the  Park.  In  the  summers,  father  made 
us  go  away  to  the  sea-shore  for  a  vacation.  We 
said  very  little.  AVe  were  not  waiting  to  speak. 
Everything  we  felt  had  been  said  save  a  silence 
which  under  different  names  we  worshiped  to 
gether. 

My  nights  I  had  always  .  .  more  and  more  fre 
quent  they  were.  I  did  not  seek  them.  I  did  not 
seek  the  discording  questions  that  made  clear  the 
night  and  the  stirring  fleck  of  myself.  I  was  en 
wrapped  in  heat  and  darkness  beyond  will.  Then 
the  birth  came:  the  subtle  thread  of  my  being,  of 
the  beings  of  them  whom  I  crossed  in  the  Block, 
whose  shoes  I  shined:  the  pity  of  their  whisper  or 

<314> 


City  Block 

their  shriek  .  .  the  silver  or  the  blood  .  .  against 
immobile  stillness. 

I  have  thought  no  farther  than  this.  Again  and 
again:  "to  bring  the  stillness  they  break,  the  white 
ness  they  mar"  .  .  the  words  came  and  were 
atuned — these  words — with  my  night.  For  white 
and  black,  I  have  found  since,  are  one. 

Again  I  put  aside  my  words.  I  slept.  I  shined 
shoes  in  the  shop.  My  father  accepted  me  with  a 
greater  ease :  something  tiring  in  him  made  him  less 
curious,  less  troubled.  His  cheer  was  hollower. 
He  gave  me  money.  I  put  it  away  .  .  what  I  did 
not  give  to  someone  whom  I  chanced  to  meet — I 
met  so  few — who  seemed  to  want  it.  Than  this,  I 
thought  no  farther.  .  . 


I  was  fifteen  years  old  in  the  sun.  It  was  June. 
June  in  its  deep  pathos  in  New  York,  where  men 
and  women  are  plants  cut  off  from  the  wet  earth 
and  the  limpid  skies  of  June.  The  air  is  full  of 
the  longing  of  men  and  women  for  the  air  of  June. 
The  streets  flower  with  the  wills  of  men  and  women 
dreaming  of  June.  I  felt  this.  I  worked  at  the 
bootblack  stand  on  the  street  in  these  warm  June 
days.  I  saw  them  pass  me,  trailing  each  a  little 
verdant  banner.  I  saw  these  banners  catch  upon 
each  other,  intertwine,  draw  close  the  face  of  a  man 
and  the  face  of  a  woman. 

After  work,  I  went  upstairs  to  my  mother.  She 
sat  beside  the  table,  very  dark  in  the  twilight. 

<315> 


City  Block 

Above  her  was  the  lurid  red  and  gold  of  the  pic 
ture  of  the  Virgin. 

"Mama,  let's  go  for  a  walk." 

She  laid  aside  her  darning,  she  put  about  her 
thick-maned  head  a  shawl  of  black.  It  made  her 
still  shorter,  still  thicker.  She  stood  up  with  her 
eyes  glad  in  the  shadow:  and  against  her  sombre 
form  I  saw  the  fading  crimson  of  the  Virgin. 

We  walked  that  time  to  the  little  Park  by  the 
River.  Mother  said  no  word;  but  as  we  crossed 
each  avenue  she  took  my  hand — as  if  I  was  not 
big  enough  to  cross  alone ! — and  guiding  me  across 
she  pressed  my  hand.  That  was  her  word,  re 
peated  till  we  sat  together  on  a  bench. 

There  was  a  dance  in  me.  The  waves  tossed  up 
short:  the  grass  sang  in  the  breeze:  sparrows 
swarmed  and  circled  in  the  trilling  air.  A  warm 
thickness  grew  within  the  world,  a  sort  of  swelling 
everywhere.  It  brought  each  thing  closer  to  each 
other:  lives  touched:  a  fertile  languor  slackened 
the  dance  of  wave  and  bird  and  us  all.  We  were 
fixed  together. 

"Paolo,"  said  my  mother  in  the  hush  of  twilight, 
"neither  your  Papa  nor  I  like  for  you  to  do  what 
you  do  at  the  shop.  We  got  plenty  of  money. 
Why  don't  you  stop?" 

"I'll  stop,  if  you  want  me  too." 

"What  will  you  do,  Paolo?  I  so  want  to  know, 
what  will  you  do?" 

She  was  full  of  question  and  of  love  .  .  so  full, 
that  she  was  young  beside  me.  I  looked  at  my 

<316> 


City  Block 

mother.  — I  have  been  in  Thee!  In  Thy  flesh  my 
heart  learnt  to  beat,  in  Thy  flesh  I  became  myself. 
I  Jooked  at  this  little  woman  bundled  in  a  shawl 
for  the  air  was  fresh,  and  knew  the  dreadful  sepa- 
rateness  of  us  two  beyond  all  others,  because  I  had 
been  in  her  flesh.  I  wanted  to  touch  my  mother. 
There  beyond,  on  the  brow  of  the  mounting  Park, 
was  another  woman:  I  touched  her.  — I  cannot 
touch  Thee? 

Her  eyes  met  mine :  a  blaze  of  terror  beyond  the 
sight  of  us  both  sent  our  eyes  apart.  Separate! 
It  is  written. 

"Mother,"  I  whispered,  "mother  .  .  what  do  you 
know  of  me?" 

"I  know  nothing  of  you,  Paolo.  I  am  a  Chris 
tian  woman.  You  are  my  son  .  .  my  blessing. 
What  should  I  know  of  you?" 

My  voice  was  far,  her  body  was  far.  But  her 
voice  was  near! 

"Soon  I  will  stop  from  shining  shoes,"  I  said. 
And  it  seemed  to  me  that  between  my  mother  and 
me  there  were  many  people  .  .  men  and  women: 
and  all  of  us  her  children,  and  I  the  child  of  them 
all. 

I  was  afraid:  so  far  she  was,  and  so  dear.  I 
wept.  __  She  saw  me  sitting  there  still,  who  wept.  I 
saw  her  hands  come  to  mend  me,  to  comfort  me. 
Hands  clasped  my  face,  hard  stranger  hands!  It 
was  monstrous!  What  were  these  hands  to  my 
mother,  what  to  me? 

<317> 


City  Block 

She  felt  a  shrinking.     She  withdrew  her  hands, 
I  got  up.     I  accepted  her  apartness.  .  . 


The  next  morning,  I  worked  early  at  the  stand, 
for  it  was  Saturday.  To  each  customer  I  said: 

"This  is  the  last  time  I  shine  your  shoes." 

I  must  have  said  it  strangely.  For  some 
laughed :  some  did  not  hear.  No  one  seemed  to  be 
lieve  me. 

In  the  late  afternoon  I  went  to  my  room  and 
from  a  drawer  I  took  a  purse  bulging  with  dollar 
bills.  I  placed  it  in  my  breast  pocket.  I  moved 
downstairs  through  a  calm  emptiness  from  which 
each  object  .  .  chair  and  basket  and  rack  .  . 
thrust  out  with  insolent  longing.  I  walked  away. 

I  walked. 

In  the  Pawnbroker's  Shop,  there  was  no  one. 
The  man  looked  at  me  as  I  shut  the  door  which 
rang  during  the  pause  of  my  entrance.  He  was 
bald  and  on  his  shiny  skull  was  a  small  black  cap. 
He  had  a  face  wide  and  white.  He  had  bulging 
eyes,  colorless  like  fire.  He  had  thin  lips,  very 
pale. 

"What  do  you  want?"  he  said. 

An  elevated  train  crashed  past.     I  was  still. 

"What  can  I  do  for  you?"  he  said. 

I  took  my  purse  from  my  breast  pocket,  laid  it 
on  the  counter  of  glass  above  the  gleam  of  watches 
and  bracelets  and  trinkets. 

<318> 


City  Block 

"A  pistol,"  I  said. 

He  stood  very  straight  and  high  behind  the 
counter.  There  was  stillness,  swept  upon  us  by  the 
thrust  of  the  past  crashing  train. 

He  got  down  on  his  knees.  I  saw  across  the 
counter  his  pale  bald  head  and  his  skull  cap  bowed 
low.  He  was  on  his  knees,  and  on  his  knees  he 
was  praying. 

Then  he  got  up.  In  his  eyes,  bulging  less,  more 
liquid,  I  saw  an  answer.  I  smiled.  He  left  me: 
he  brought  me  back  a  pistol. 

I  pointed  to  the  purse.     He  shook  his  head. 

"Take  the  money.     It  is  mine,"  I  said  to  him. 

"It  is  not  mine,"  he  answered. 

I  put  the  purse  back  in  my  breast  pocket.  I 
put  the  pistol  in  the  pocket  of  my  trowsers  where 
it  pressed  hard  and  cool  against  my  leg.  Each 
step  I  felt  it  press  against  my  leg.  It  was  hard 
and  sheer  there.  I  walking  through  the  turgid 
city  saw  the  pistol  cutting  a  path  before  me.  Cool 
and  sheer  like  a  knife.  .  . 

Central  Park  at  evening  dusk  lay  in  a  blue  mist. 
All  of  the  Park  was  a  soft  flowing  together  of 
leaves  and  branches  into  gentle  night. 

I  found  thick  bushes  and  lay  down  in  them. 
The  grass  and  the  earth  smote  harsh  against  my 
face.  They  accepted  me.  The  leaves  and  the 
branches  and  the  earth  flowed  more  and  more  to 
gether:  swam  more  thickly  about  me  into  Night. . . 

Once  more,  very  far  away,  I  heard  the  men  and 
<319> 


City  Block 

women  breaking  upon  each  other.  .  .  Stillness. 
.  .  Breaking,  breaking.  .  .  Whiteness.  .  .  I  heard 
no  sound.  Breaking  no  more.  .  .  I  heard  the 
Stillness  only,  as  I  died. 


FINIS 
1915-1922. 


<320> 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 


AN  INITIAL  FINE  OF  25  CENTS 

WILL  BE  ASSESSED   FOR   FAILURE  TO   RETURN 


RETURN     CIRCULATION  DEPARTMENT 

TO—  •*>      202  Main  Library 

LOAN  PERIOD  1 
HOME  USE 

2 

3 

4 

5 

6 

ALL  BOOKS  MAY  BE  RECALLED  AFTER  7  DAYS 

1  -month  loans  may  be  renewed  by  calling  642-3405 

6-month  loans  may  be  recharged  by  bringing  books  to  Circulation  Desk 

Renewals  and  recharges  may  be  made  4  days  prior  to  due  date 

DUE  AS  STAMPED  BELOW 


BECCIRFEB21'81 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  BERKELEY 

FORM  NO.  DD6,  60m,  3/80  BERKELEY,  CA  94720 

®$ 


U.C.  BERKELEY  LIBRARIES 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CAUFORNfA  LIBRARY 


